But that is not what I find.
I roll the trolley through a generous foyer, and into a vast living space with impressionist paintings on the walls.
Yikes. I hope I can spend a couple hours here without breaking anything.
I carefully unload the luggage into the foyer, and then steer the trolley back into the hallway.
And then I go back into Neil’s apartment and sit politely in a chair for two hours.
No, that’s a lie. Who could resist snooping around a billionaire’s bachelor pad? Taking my time, I walk slowly around Neil’s luxury apartment. I’m not going to open any drawers, or anything. But I pace every inch of the shiny wood floors.
First, I tour the living room, which is the size of a soccer field. It’s a corner unit, so the windows provide views from two directions—the cutest streets in Brooklyn with the Manhattan Bridge looming in the distance.
New York is prettier from up here. When you’re down at street level, hurrying to work, things look a lot less romantic.
The apartment’s interior is just as impressive as the view. Everything looks like it belonged to a Roosevelt or a Carnegie. It’s beautiful, but not comfortable.
The super-formal-looking living room furniture consists of a big leather sofa with buttons all over it and a couple of stiff-looking armchairs. There’s a bronze sculpture of a horse on the coffee table.
I didn’t know Neil was interested in horses. Or maybe he isn’t, but this is just something rich guys have.
Like I’d know the difference.
The room is so big that I don’t notice the grand piano in the corner until after I make a complete circuit. There’s also a formal dining table and six chairs.
Does Neil throw dinner parties? I can’t quite picture it.
Things get a little homier in the enormous kitchen. It’s fancy, but more inviting, with a table for three by the window, and a couple of nice stools at the counter. There’s a gleaming metal coffee machine and a six-burner stove in stainless steel. The backsplash is laid with shiny mosaic tiles, and the countertops are concrete.
The style is what I’d call “posh industrial.” I dig it. There’s even a metal circular staircase in the corner that leads upward. Toward the roof, I suppose?
I don’t climb up there to snoop, because getting trapped on the roof of a strange building is the only way this day could get worse.
I wander the rest of the apartment, passing an elegant half bathroom, where a rolled-up fluffy towel waits on the marble counter. I open a door, expecting a bedroom, but find a giant walk-in closet.
True fact? Neil’s closet is nearly as large as the bedroom in my shithole apartment.
After exiting the closet, there’s only one doorway left, so I head through it. And wow. Neil’s bedroom is the nicest room of all. It’s enormous, for starters, with a bed the size of a city block. The pretty views of Brooklyn are back, and on the wall opposite the bed hangs a nice but not outrageously large television.
This is also the only room in the place with hints of life. There’s a Men’s Health magazine on the bedside table. I can picture Neil reclining against the padded headboard, thumbing through that magazine, comparing the fitness gurus’ sixpacks with his own perfectly sculpted, lickable—
Okay, nope. I am not picturing Neil Drake naked. That is a bad idea. I’m ashamed to say that even before last night, I’d often wondered what Neil Drake looked like naked.
And now that I know, I wish I didn’t. Because he was a truly breathtaking sight.
With a shuddery breath, I poke my head into the en suite bathroom. It’s ludicrously large, with a fancy walk-in shower and a deep, triangular tub—the kind you see in movies about billionaires.
So the bathtub is on-brand.
Although I suppose Neil could live in a three-bedroom apartment with a home gym and—heck—something bonkers like a bowling alley or a movie theater.
But nope. He lives in the nicest one-bedroom apartment I’ve ever seen.
On my way out of the bedroom suite, I take one more glance at the bed. The sheets look crisp and smooth. And as I pass by, it occurs to me that—at least for the next couple of hours—I’m actually Neil’s legally wedded wi—
Nope. I can’t even think that word, let alone say it.
I hurry back into the silent living room. I’m supposed to be napping. It’s a great idea, because I need rest for practice later, and I need to shut off the worry loop in my brain.
I slip off my shoes and take a seat on Neil’s weird sofa. I scoot back, leaning against the buttoned leather and it’s… awful. Somehow, I’m reclining on the least comfortable piece of furniture I’ve ever encountered.
Who had decided that putting so many buttons under your ass would be a good idea? The buttons dimple the leather upholstery into a surprisingly firm, pot-holed surface. Not only is it too hard, but it’s also bumpy.
I kick off my shoes and lie down on it anyway. A button digs into my cheek.
I close my eyes, but it’s hard to sleep. The couch is partly to blame, but blurry memories keep teasing my consciousness. Even though last night I’d been very, very drunk, when I close my eyes, it comes back to me in little flashes.
A glimpse of Neil laughing at the county clerk’s office.
The wedding chapel with its fake roses on every surface.
I’m pretty sure the wedding had been Neil’s idea. It was supposed to have been a game. My drunk self had known this. But I hadn’t spoken up, even when we’d been standing in front of the Rent-A-Reverend dressed like Elvis.
It’s painful to think about why.
But the truth is, I’d done it because he’d chosen me. Drunk off his ass, of course, but it still mattered that he’d looked at me and had said she’s the one. I hadn’t been able to resist a starring role in his drunken caper.
I don’t remember all the specifics, and Neil, with his unlucky metabolism, probably remembers even less. But I do remember how it had felt to be picked by the fancy guy all the women wanted. The sleek athlete who grew up in Westchester and Switzerland and Whistler and on Martha’s Vineyard. A guy who knew what kind of wine pairs well with fish.
He’d smiled at me. Sloppily, sure. But at me. Not Iris. Not anyone else. Just me—the rough kid nobody had ever wanted. So I’d helped him make a huge mistake that would complicate our lives, just because I hadn’t been able to turn down the compliment.
Nice one, Higgins. Way to go.
One of the sofa’s buttons is poking my jaw. When I roll over, they poke my ass. I dig my bulky phone out of my back pocket. The top-of-the-line Katt phone all the Bruisers and Bombshells carry is as big as a slice of bread.
Since I can’t sleep, I shoot off a text to my brother. DENNIS! I don’t ever want to come home again and find Robert. Take him and that TV and clear out of there by tomorrow morning.
God, he’d better do it, too. Then I’ll have a big decision to make. Do I change the locks and force a confrontation with the only family member I have who bothers with me?
I really don’t know.
My Katt Phone beeps, but it’s not my brother. The tone is the special sound reserved for management. My stomach rolls with dread, and I check the screen with great reluctance.
My fear grows when I see that the text is from Georgia, the publicist. Holy crap! What does she know? I tap the message with a shaking finger.