Page 65 of Bombshells
“Then think of the dumplings. Will you let me feed you lunch and explain myself at the same time?”
“If you keep the explaining to a minimum.”
“I’ll try.” Those beautiful eyes look so sincere that I find myself caving.
“Okay,” I concede. Besides—even if I don’t like what Anton has to say, I want to stay friends.
Plus, dumplings.
So I follow him into his building. And wow—what a difference crossing the street makes. Anton’s lobby is vast, with plush sofas and grand carpets on the marble floor. “Afternoon, Mr. Bayer,” says a uniformed concierge from behind a formidable desk. “Should I put in your lunch order?”
“Already done, Miguel. Just send him up when he gets here?”
“No problem, man.”
I follow Anton into a shining elevator for a short ride up a couple of stories. “I guess men’s hockey pays pretty well.”
“True enough,” he says. “Although I’m renting from my cousin, Eric. And he doesn’t charge me top dollar.”
“That’s handy.”
“You know it. I didn’t even need furniture because Eric left everything to me when he moved into his girlfriend’s penthouse in Manhattan.”
He leads me out of the elevator, down a lovely carpeted hallway and into an apartment that’s nothing like I expect it to be. It’s one big room, with tall leaded-glass windows set into a red brick wall. At one end is the living area, with a big comfy couch and a TV.
At the other is a sleek kitchen, above which is a loft bedroom. An industrial metal staircase climbs up to a broad landing, where I can see a giant, low-slung bed with a fluffy white comforter and blue velvet cushions.
I realize all of a sudden that I’m staring at Anton’s bed.
Whoops!
I turn around to find him watching me, a solemn expression on his face. “Can I get you a cherry seltzer?”
“Sure. Thanks.” I clear my throat, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. The truth is that I can’t seem to stamp out my attraction to Anton, even if I’m mad at him.
In his tidy kitchen, he pours two glasses of seltzer, then squeezes fresh lime and a splash of some kind of high-end cherry syrup into each one. After giving the drinks a quick stir, he brings them to the sofa and sets them onto the coffee table.
“Thank you,” I say, taking a fruity sip. “Your place is really nice.”
Those blue eyes study me. “Can I grovel now? I’ll make it quick.”
“If you must. Unless it’s some kind of bullshit thing about how you took advantage, or something. Because that’s ridiculous.”
I get a quick smile for that. “Look, I’m glad to hear that you don’t regret me. But I feel like I complicated your life. You have unfinished business with my teammate.”
“No way,” I scoff. “Not true.”
“But you were upset about him just one hour before we…” He clears his throat. “You were, Sylvie. You said so yourself.”
Well, crap. He has a point. “But only because I’m stubborn,” I point out. “And rejection is never fun. Even before I came to Brooklyn, I already knew how things stood. But I’m the kind of person who likes things clarified. So I sort of forced him to reject me the other night. And—sue me—I didn’t like being shot down. But it wasn’t actually news.”
“Yeah, okay. But there’s still a lot of history between you. And he…” Anton sets his glass down and shakes his head.
“He what?” I demand. “Did you discuss me?”
“Just for a moment,” he says quietly. “He, uh, thanked me for getting you home safely.”
“Oh.” That sounds like Bryce. And I can only imagine how Anton felt receiving this bit of thanks. A snort of inappropriate laughter escapes me, and I clap a hand over my mouth.
