Page 18 of Holiday Hoax

The doors slide open, and I’m treated to a stunning view of Lake Michigan through double-height windows. The floors are white marble with subtle silver veining providing movement and interest. The walls are white. The trim is white. Even the floating stairs leading up to the second level are white.

“Hi.” Ian walks around the corner in a pair of jeans and a plain long-sleeve navy shirt. He’s wearing wire-rim glasses, and his hair is artfully mused, like he’s been running his hands through it.

“Hello.” I pull my gaze from him, trying to ignore the spark of attraction I always feel when I look at him. I mean, who wouldn’t feel like that when he looks like a damn model all the time? “I see what you mean about it being a blank space. Not that it’s not absolutely stunning.”

He gives me a chagrined smile. “I know. Decorating isn’t my strong suit.”

“That must be cleanliness.” I swear I could probably lick these floors and be perfectly fine.

“Yeah, between my tidiness and Marta, everything stays clean.”

“Marta?” He’s never mentioned her before.

“Yes, my housekeeper.” He helps me pull off my coat and hangs it up in a coat closet. “Want the tour?”

“Absolutely.”

“Follow me.”

He leads me into the living room, which is all glass on one side, has a large fireplace with more marble surrounding it, and a large sectional. Everything is white or cream-colored. No warmth, no life. Just sterile enough to make me think I could easily be in an institution.

The kitchen actually has more warmth, with light bamboo cabinetry extending all the way to the ceiling. I immediately zero in on a place behind the dining table where a large painting would fit perfectly. Something with a lot of warmth and color to liven up the area. I even have an artist in mind, especially knowing the colors that speak to Ian.

Next is the hallway, his office, a few guest rooms, and a media room, which is the only place in the apartment with any color and it’s all black. I take notes as we go, jotting down ideas as I look over the space. All of his furniture is gorgeous and arranged functionally but also beautifully.

“Did you use a designer?”

“Yes.” He peeks down at my notepad. “Is it that obvious?”

“No, not at all. Everything is well put together, which could easily be your doing. You’re always so well dressed, even when it’s casual.” I gesture at his body to drive home my point. “I am surprised they didn't add any art or wall decor, though.”

“That was my direction. I figured the views were enough.”

“No doubt about it, the views are amazing, but the starkness of the white walls leaves something to be desired. It feels a bit institutional.”

“A straitjacket?” he jokes.

“I wouldn’t go that far. Maybe just some grippy socks.”

He laughs as he opens the door at the end of the hall, but as soon as I follow him inside the room, my jaw drops. The view from the primary suite is stunning. Windows gleam from floor toceiling on two sides of the room highlighting the view of the lake on one side and the city on the other.

“I’d never get out of bed,” I say reverently. And to be very clear, the bed is a masterpiece as well, with a padded headboard extending two thirds of the way up the wall. There’s no footboard, it would only impede the view, which would be criminal.

“I don’t on Sunday mornings.” He walks around the bed and sits back against the headboard, his long, denim-clad legs crossing over one another. “I stay in bed and read until noon, unless I have something scheduled.” He pats the bed beside him in invitation.

Something about slipping my shoes off and sitting down with him feels intimate. His feet are bare and bizarrely attractive with long toes and neatly trimmed nails. His shoulder nudges mine, and he clears his throat.

“Are you staring at my feet?”

“Yeah. Just thinking that you could probably sell photos of yours if things in the family business ever go south.”

He lifts his foot and looks at it. “You think?”

“I do. You’re irritatingly attractive.” It’s an offhand comment I don’t think too much about as I start studying the space around us. “There’s really only the space on either side of the headboard for any art in here.”

“Wait a minute.” He holds a hand up, and I swear I feel his ego swell in the ensuing seconds. “You think I’m attractive?”

“Don’t let it go to your head.” I brush him off, not wanting to go down this road.

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