Page 62 of Not in My Book

“What the shit? Is thisyours?”

I was too stunned to move. I’d had a suspicion Aiden had money. I mean, he had paid for so many of my meals that I figured he was at least comfortable. Butthis? This was an anomaly. This was the holy grail of apartments—houses—in New York.

He walked down the few steps and grabbed my hand, interlacing our fingers. “C’mon, let’s go in.”

He dropped the bags instead of my hand to reach in his pocket for his keys, then he pushed the door open for me.

“Holy fuck, Aiden.”

I’d been raised in the South, where we learned certain rules of hospitality. That meant waiting for your host to guide you into the living room and asking politely if you should take your shoes off. But all of that flew out the door when I walked into Aiden’s apartment.

Past his foyer, the room split to a kitchen straight ahead and a living room to my left. I walked in, and if it was possible, my jaw dropped even further. There were floor to ceiling windows facing the streets, only covered by thin white curtains. Aiden had placed a small table and reclining chair near it; a stack of books rested on the table. At the center of the room, facing the wall with a TV mounted, was a large couch.

“I’ll grab my laptop and we can start working. Make yourself at home,” Aiden said, walking down a hallway.

Remembering myself, I toed my sneakers off and placed them near the door. I peeked into the kitchen to find it was just as spacious. An island sat between the stove and the dining room table, white granite covering it. But it wasn’t one of those places where you were afraid to touch anything. There were splashes of color in the backdrops and plants and dish towels that made it feel homey.

I went back into the living room as I waited for Aiden, the rug under my feet incredibly soft. At the edge of the room near his reading nook were tall bookshelves, each one filled with books facing upright and pulled to the edge of the shelf. I ran my finger against the spines, reading all the different titles, and then I peered at his table—Pride and Prejudicewas sitting at the top of the stack of books, a pen stuck in the middle as a bookmark.

The sun through the windows was fading fast. It cast a golden glow over the room, shadows emerging at nearly every corner.

Aiden came back with his laptop in hand, turning on a lamp. “I thought we could work on the couch? But if you want to work at the table—”

I shook my head. “The couch is perfect.”

I sank into the cushions, and he sat carefully next to me, balancing his laptop on his thighs. Our knees werethisclose to touching. I’d never thought about hands or knees or collarbones this much in my life.

“So, are we going to talk about it?” I asked expectantly.

“About what?”

“About the fact that you’re clearly a secret billionaire.”

He smiled, opening the laptop. I don’t think I would ever get used to the lines that formed on the sides of his face when he smiled.

“Secret billionaire is agreattrope,” I muttered to myself.

“What?” He side eyed me.

“Nothing,” I waved him off. “So we’re not going to address it?”

“We’re not.”

“C’mon.” I knocked my shoulder with his. “Indulge me.”

He hesitated. “Fine. But I don’t want to talk about it afterward.”

I saluted him. “Scout’s honor.”

He gestured to the Strand bag sitting in his foyer. “That book I gave you, the one by Maggie Frantel? That’s my mom.”

My chin jerked back, my mouth parting. “But your last name is Huntington.”

“She wrote under her maiden name. She didn’t want my dad’s name to be associated with her work.”

“Hold up hold up.” I waved my hands to indicate I needed some more time to process this. “Maggie Frantel is yourmom? LiketheMaggie Frantel.”

“Yes.”

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