Page 13 of Beyond the Spotlight Discreet Version
“Okay. But before I accept, I want to meet at your place so you can give me a tour and tell me more about what the job entails.”
He smiles. Ugh. He’s so fucking beautiful. My heart thrashes against my chest as if it already belongs to this man and is fighting to escape to return to its owner.
“Brilliant. Are you available to meet tomorrow? We can go over paperwork, as well.”
“Yes. I can meet in the morning.”
“Let me get your number.” He reaches into his front pocket for his phone.
“I won’t ghost you again.”
He taps away at his screen, then hands it over to me, eyebrow raised. “Fool me once...”
I roll my eyes and take his phone.
“Whydidyou ghost me? Why didn’t you text or call to tell me you changed your mind?”
“Because I was afraid you’d try to convince me to change my mind about not interviewing.”
He smiles as if that’s exactly what he would have done.
I finish adding my name and number to his contacts and hand the phone back to him. He glances at my information.
“Savannah Monroe. Beautiful name.”
I blush and he blushes and we’re two awkward people standing in the trash area of a restaurant, staring at each other.
He moves as if he’s about to step closer to me, then reconsiders, perhaps thinking about his sore jaw.
The back door swings open again, and my manager, Garcia, pokes his head out. “Savvy,” he begins. “We are dying in there.”
“Sorry, coming in now.”
Reynold clears his throat. “I’ll text you.”
This time, when I walk past him, he doesn’t stop me. And I wonder if he looked at my ass before the door shuts between us.
ItoldReynoldIwanted to meet at his home, because if I’m going to be working for him, living in his penthouse, spending my every waking moment with his daughter, then I should see where this will all be happening.
He offered to send a car to pick me up, but I refused. We argued over text about that for at least ten minutes before I sent him a ghost emoji and stopped replying.
I take the 1 train down to 85thStreet and hop on a crosstown bus to the Upper East Side, getting out on Fifth Avenue and walking a few blocks to Reynold’s apartment building. I stare up at the side of the limestone façade. It’s got a Renaissance feel to it. I think. I know nothing about architecture, but I’m pretty sure only rich people live along Fifth Avenue across from Central Park.
Reynold must have informed the doorman I was coming because the moment he sees me, he says my name, then leads me to an elevator. He scans a card and pushes a button for the ninth floor, giving me a nod as the doors close on me. Less than a minute later, they open to a breathtaking foyer with artwork lining the white walls. A woman appears in the hallway before I can focus on each painting.
“You must be Savannah,” she says, tipping her head ever so slightly. She’s older, I’d guess in her sixties, with her gray hair pulled into a bun at the nape. She’s wearing a blue suit with a simple white blouse underneath. Her hands are clasped behind her back. “My name is Brenda. I’m the house manager.”
“A house manager?”
She smiles. “I’m in charge of the household staff, keeping supplies around the apartment stocked, calling on any service appointments for maintenance needs, running errands, and whatever else Mister Michaelson needs.”
“Oh, so he’s rich, rich.”
That makes her chuckle. “That he is.” She waves me to follow her down the long hallway.
“How many staff does he have?”
“Besides his agent, manager, and PR team, Mister Michaelson has an assistant, stylist, chef, housekeeper, personal trainer, and driver, though he prefers to take the subway. New York City traffic and all.” After living here for two weeks, I understand that. The subway is faster. Does he not get recognized? To be fair, I had no clue who he was when we met. I also pay no attention to the other people on the subway. Is that why he likes taking it?
