“I guess I could come round for a bit?”
There’s no hesitation before he responds, “I’ll send my driver.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh no need. I’ve got a retinue of my own. Loads of them just waiting down by the curb eager to do my bidding. Oh, please, Candace! Let me drive you! No, me!”
“He’ll be there in ten minutes.”
I eek out a high-pitched “Oh Lordy!” and hang up on him so I can dash into my room and get ready.
What does one wear to seduce and ensnare a professional footballer? A dress? A nightie? Sexy knickers? No knickers?
Kat and Yasmine aren’t home, which is probably for the best. They’d only war with me about what outfit to wear, and I think I’ve settled on something quite nice: a short black dress with sheer black stockings underneath. My checkered coat will have to do because it’s all I own.
When I’m finishing up in the bathroom, refreshing my hair and makeup, I get a text on my mobile from the driver alerting me that he’s downstairs.
Right then. Off to Oz, I suppose. I lock up the flat and hop-skip down the stairs, waving eagerly to neighbors, who only give me brief grunts in response.
The driver is this well-dressed lad about my dad’s age, all done up in a black suit. His hat is very shiny, and he gives me a huge grin when I introduce myself then he tells me he’s called Pat. I don’t think he was expecting I’d shake his hand, but what was I supposed to do? Just ignore him?
We ride toward Logan’s, me in the front seat beside Pat. He said I could get in the back, but that felt a bit odd, and this way I can fiddle with his radio.
“Do you like pop, or would you rather I find something a bit more mellow?”
He shoots me a sideways glance, chuckles, and then shakes his head. “Whatever you like is fine.”
He’s got a great New York accent, one of those you can tell he’s cultivated since birth.
I pick his brain as we drive, asking where he’d go if he wanted a proper sandwich, pizza, a burger…basically I only care about food.
He’s telling me all these great places and I’m loading them into a note on my mobile when a motorist comes out of nowhere, turns into our lane from another street, and nearly sideswipes us. Pat lays on the horn, real angry, and I do him a favor and roll down my window so I can add my own two cents.
“Oy! Watch it, buddy!” I say, sounding real menacing, and Pat gives me an approving nod as I roll my window back up.
“You’re good people,” he says as we slow down in front of Logan’s building.
“Ditto. I feel like I’ve got a new friend.” I beam then tuck away my mobile. “I’ll try out a few of these restaurants soon and report back.”
He tips his head, I give him a proper salute in farewell, and then I turn to head inside.
I’m not sure how all this works. For the party, there was a man prepared with a long list of approved guests. Now, there’s a doorman who sees me coming from a few yards away, immediately straightens his posture, and moves to hold the door open for me with a sweeping gesture.
“Ms. Williams, right this way.”
Whoa. Hello, royal treatment.
I’m so gobsmacked that he knows who I am, I don’t even think to thank him for holding the door for me. It feels so unbelievably rude. I make a note to be double nice to him the next go-round as another attendant points me in the direction of the central bank of lifts.
Inside one of them, there’s yet another man in the building’s crisp navy uniform, and when he sees me, he nods and swipes his keycard over an invisible panel. On command, the lift rises and takes us up toward the penthouse floor.
“Thank you.”
“No problem.”
“Having a good day?”
“Can’t complain, miss,” he replies shyly, offering me a small smile before we arrive at Logan’s flat.
Like the last time I was here, the lift sweeps open to the small antechamber that leads to Logan’s front door. As I head toward it, my mobile vibrates again, and I realize I missed a text from Logan a few minutes ago.
LOGAN: I’ll be back soon. Got held up.
LOGAN: Go in and get settled. There’s food in the fridge if you’re hungry.
Oh, this is heaven. Even better than expected. My stomach’s been in knots for the last half hour in anticipation of seeing Logan, but knowing he’s not in the flat makes it so much easier to stroll in past the unlocked door.
It’s dead silent inside, and all the lights are off. I hover in the foyer, kick off my ballet flats, and sort of do a bit of bobbing and peering down deserted hallways to check there are no ghosts about to pop out and scare me.
“Anyone home?! Yoohoo! If you’re going to leap out at me, at least give me a heads-up so I don’t soak my knickers!”
When no one from the other side responds, I get comfortable. I flip on lights and stroll through rooms, making a mental map as I go. Powder room, living room, bar, guest room, gym, sauna, kitchen, butler’s pantry, real pantry, another bathroom, another bedroom, a tunnel to China—just kidding on that last bit, but wow this place is huge. It might as well take up a whole city block.
I retrace my steps and try to make it back to the kitchen, but then I somehow find myself in a whole other wing with its own set of bedrooms and bathrooms, and I sort of go into a bit of a panic run because my brain immediately assumes I’ll lose myself in this labyrinth forever and eventually starve. Dear god no. Any other death, please!
Eventually, I do find my way back to the kitchen (after I’ve gone sweaty), and I immediately scour the cabinets for a loaf of bread so I can leave a trail of crumbs for myself if I go off wandering again à la Hansel and Gretel.
This, of course, leads me to finding a veritable cache of snack foods: crisps, crackers, popcorn, biscuits, nuts, cereal. It’s endless. I think I’m close to tears, but maybe it’s because only moments ago I assumed I’d never eat again.
I’ve just popped the lid on some Pringles when Logan strolls into the kitchen and catches me red-handed.
My cheeks are so flushed you could fry an egg on them.
“Oh, I do hope you were serious about the ‘making yourself at home’ bit,” I say, scanning guiltily across the junk food I’d already begun to pull from the shelves. It nearly covers his kitchen island, and now I realize I might have gotten carried away.
Logan doesn’t move from the doorway, at least not at first. He hovers there, looking at his kitchen then looking at me. The edge of his mouth tips up into a smile, and then he laughs and strolls in to dump his bag on the island (on the edge, where there are still a few centimeters of free space). He doesn’t stop walking until he’s right in front of me, taking the Pringles tin from my hands and dropping it on the counter beside me.
I get a heavy whiff of his spiced body wash as his hands come to my hips and he pivots us, walking me backward until my back hits the edge of the island.
“You’ve just showered,” I blurt out.
“Yeah. I had a late workout today. I called in the middle of it.”
That sends my brain spiraling with glorious images of him lifting heavy objects while sweat drips down his bare abs.
“Tell me about it?”