Page 28 of Plum

He don’t make a move, though. He keeps holding my hand, and he watches the floor numbers light up. This is a new elevator, but it’s made to look like one of those old-fashioned ones. It’s got thick red carpet, and there’s real wood paneling.

We get off at the top. The tenth floor. There’s a short hallway, framed painting of circles and squares hanging in it, with one door at the end. Adam leads me there. He opens the door, and my brain shorts again.

“Make yourself at home,” he says. Yeah, right. There’s no fucking way. The place is opposite of homey.

It’s like the deck of a spaceship from a sci fi show. There are no walls. It’s all window. Facing forward, you can see the river. The Riverwalk is lit by streetlamps, so you can make out the water even though there’s no moon tonight. To the left, you can see the lights running along the drive to the art museum, and the art museum itself is lit bright as day.

I don’t like it. It feels too exposed, too high. Like I should be prepared for a bird attack.

Adam drops my hand, takes out his wallet and keys, drops them in a bowl on a hall table, and heads off to the kitchen. This is what they call “open concept” on the home improvement shows. It’s really, really open. And everything is only one color. No patterns. No prints.

The L-shaped sofa is brown leather. No pillows. No throws. There’s a funnel thing that goes clear to the ceiling with glass at the base—a fireplace, I think—and it’s black. There are more paintings of shapes on an interior wall, and they’re all reddish orange.

Shit, every appliance in the kitchen is stainless steel, so it’s wall-to-wall gray. He doesn’t have any magnets on his fridge or appliances on his counters.Nothin’.

That’s where he is now. Rummaging in his fridge. Weird. How’s he still hungry? We just had dinner. I did eat most of his steak, come to think of it, though.

I don’t know what to do with myself in this space. There’s nowhere to hang my purse. This has to be the most uncomfortable house I ever been in, and I bunked with Ma on some hippy’s closed-in porch for a whole summer one time. There was no electric, and the compost was right next to the house.

“Is there a bathroom?” I ask. I don’t really have to go. I just need a minute to get my bearings.

He’s getting bowls from a cabinet. “Back that way. First door on the right.” He waves to a doorway in the interior wall.

There’s a hall, dimly lit with wall sconces, and I go exploring. One door is open. It’s a bedroom, and the far wall is all window. I don’t care if it’s tinted, I’d never sleep a wink in a room like that, feelin’ like someone was watching me.

I wander past the bathroom door. The end of the hall opens on another big room. I’m curious, and Adam’s still clanging around in the kitchen, so I peek in. Holy shit. This must be his bedroom. The walls are glass on two sides, and there’s a bed…must be a California King. It’s made perfect, with a white cover and white pillows, perfectly placed. Does he have a maid? He’s gotta have a maid.

There are circular stairs that lead up to a loft with a desk. It’s only a slab of wood on what looks like steel sawhorses, but it’s massive. And there’s shelves and shelves of books up there. He’s even got one of those ladders so he can reach the books up high. He’s so tall, the ladder’s got to be just for show, but still. Damn.

I creep along the wall to check out the doors along the right wall. They’re both open, so all I have to do is reach in and flip the light. One is a closet filled with what must be a hundred suits. Two hundred. And twice as many pairs of shoes. The farthest door is a bathroom. He’s got a jacuzzi tub and a shower. Separate. And the shower has two shower heads.

All this fancy shit, and nothing to look at but orange squares and triangles on the wall. I shake my head.

“You get lost?”

I nearly jump out of my skin. Adam’s standing in the doorway. He fills it up, and he’s backlit, so I can’t make out his expression. My heart beats faster.

“Nope. Just casing the joint.”

“You planning on robbing me?” His voice don’t sound like he’s joking. It’s deep. Gravelly. Not what I’d describe as friendly. Shit. There’s no way out of here except past him down the hallway.

I try to keep it light. “Nah. I ain’t into paintings of orange circles.”

He laughs. Now he don’t sound mad. Maybe I’m not reading shit right. I am kind of out of my element.

“My interior designer assured me the paintings improved the flow of the rooms,” he says.

“You paid someone to decorate this place? Well, fuck. How exactly do you get that job?”

“I think you have to know people.”

“I heard that’s the way of things.” I casually saunter to the bed. Just in case he does think I was trying to steal his shit, I know a way to distract him. I sit, slowly crossing my legs, making sure to accidentally flash him my panties.

It’s hard to make out, but I think he groans.

“Come to the kitchen with me.” He holds out a hand.

Okay. I guess he’s a slow mover. Wouldn’t have figured that based on the wood he’s been sporting all evening, but different strokes for different folks as my grandma used to say.

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