Page 101 of Unbind

She straightens up and I instantly drown in her big brown eyes. ‘Really?’

‘Of course. They’d love you.’

‘Do they know about me?’

’Quinn does,’ I tell her. ‘Dad doesn’t… yet. I didn’t want to tempt fate.’

Her mouth turns down at the corners, like she’s in pain on my behalf, and she leans in to press a soft kiss to my lips. ‘I’m not going anywhere. And I’d love to meet your family.’

‘Good,’ I murmur against her mouth.

‘I do have an important question, though,’ she says, pulling back and brightening.

‘And what’s that?’

‘Do you decorate your house for Christmas? I can’t imagine how beautiful it must look.’ She gives me a grin so hopeful that I feel like I’m kicking a puppy when I answer.

‘Not really. I get someone in to put up a tree in the hallway, but that’s about it.’

Her face falls. ‘Seriously? No garlands? Adam, that’s awful! You could go so crazy on that staircase with tons of fresh greenery.’

I shrug. ‘It’s only me there most of the time. And the staff, obviously. I can’t be bothered.’

She raises her eyebrows, unimpressed, and I laugh and straighten up in my seat.

‘Miss Bennett. I happen to have the enquiry form from the guys who do the tree sitting in my inbox. Would you be at all interested in running with this special, festive project? I think we could find a way to expand the remit if you think you’re capable of assuming more responsibility?’

She sits bolt upright. ‘Seriously? You’ll let me kit your entire house out?’

‘I’ll let you brief a team of professionals on how to kit myentire house out, yes,’ I clarify, sliding my iPad towards her and wondering exactly what I’m letting myself in for. Nat’s a very classy woman with excellent taste. I’m assuming she’ll do an incredible job.

Far more importantly,thisis the kind of smile I’ve been trying to put on her face for the past two days.

59

NATALIE

Max may have swept Darcy and Dex off to the Aman, which I’m sure is all modern gorgeousness and understated luxury and neutral palates, but my boyfriend knows me well, it seems. I suspect he’s not surprised by my reaction to The Pierre, where he’s booked us a suite.

Whenever I’ve dreamed of New York in the past,thisis what I’ve imagined. The Pierre feels old world and old money and decadent, with its frescoed rotunda and well-heeled patrons and huge bowls of pink and white flowers everywhere.

Oooh—I wonder if we’ll see Tory Burch? She’s a major idol of mine, and I’m pretty sure she lives here.

But none of this has anything on our suite, which is incredible and absolutely massive. It features platinum-coloured silk on the panelled walls and low grey sofas and even a mahogany dining table. Our bedroom is almost as palatial as Adam’s is back home, but my absolute favourite part is the terrace that lies beyond the smart French doors.

Not only is it chic as hell with its wrought-iron furniture,but it has a gobsmacking view straight onto Central Park. Granted, late November is not the best time to hang out on a high Manhattan terrace, but I’m determined to cosy up under some blankets later and enjoy the view.

Adam takes me out for a late lunch and a wander around the neighbourhood. I fall fast and hard for the Upper East Side. It’s every bit as iconic as I’ve dreamed of, with its chic boutiques and art galleries. I particularly love the leafy side streets off Madison, their brownstones to die for.

It’s on one of these streets in the seventies that we sit for a late lunch ofmoules marinièresand obscenely good fries at a charming little bistro with starched white tablecloths and rickety wooden chairs. I’m in heaven. I thought I’d be feeling worse, but the magical concoction Dr Dyson gave us and the plane nap Adam insisted on in an actual double bed have me fighting fit and raring to go.

It feels good to be here, to put some physical distance between me and not only my brother but my unpaid invoices and long hours. I’ve only seen a tiny part of Manhattan, but so far it’s delivering precisely the shot of inspiration and wellbeing that I’ve always suspected it would.

It’s not until my phone lights up with a voice note from my brother towards the end of lunch that I allow myself to consider the real world. Why would I? I’m in a dreamy bubble with the kindest, most handsome, most attentive man I’ve ever, ever met, and I’m not sure I’m ready to reenter the real world. I eye my phone suspiciously. I’m afraid that if I listen, and he goes off on some slut-shaming, disappointed rant again, my precious little bubble will burst.

I put my phone in my bag. Once we’re in Central Park, and Adam’s fetching us hot chocolates from a kiosk withstern instructions to me to adjust my insulin first, I put in an ear bud and settle back on a cold bench and pressplay.

Hey.My brother’s awkward greeting fills my ear. There’s a pause, and then he starts talking.Jesus. Look, I know you’re in New York—with him—so I didn’t want to call and disturb you. I wanted to say… I had a long, long chat with Mum and Dad, and my brain’s a bit all over the place, to be honest, but what’s very clear is that I owe you an apology. You definitely caught me off guard the other night, but I was a total shithead, and I’m sorry.

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