Page 9 of The Lawyer
My fists tighten, another long breath held in, and once again, I hurry down the flights of stairs to meet Landon in the car. Frustrating isn't the word for this man.
“Could you enlighten me as to what was wrong with this property?" I ask as the car pulls away.
“Enlighten you?” he questions, that brow of his drawn down low over his eyes.
“Yes, help me to understand what was wrong so that if the last property is still not to your liking, I’m able to review the criteria to your satisfaction.” I finish and keep all the emotion from flitting over my face. It’s harder than I thought.
“I don’t have a criteria, Miss Etherington. But I know what I’ll be satisfied with when I see it. That wasn't it."
Oh my God, he’s impossible. I sit back in the seat and allow the soft leather to provide some semblance of comfort.
Despite our efficient use of time at each property, we're creeping closer to rush hour from all the zig-zagging across the city. The car crawls most of the way there, and by the time we start inching closer, I feel myself getting even more hopeful for the last one. It's my personal favourite, but it's also the only other option for today, and I don’t relish the idea of a repeat performance on Monday. Frankly, it's exhausting just being in his presence, regardless of the good looks. He's oppressive. Demeaning somehow.
A lanky man greets us at the final apartment. The building is a tall, imposing tower that reminds me of Landon himself, and I can already anticipate the views.
“This way.” He leads us to the bank of lifts. “Twenty-four-hour concierge. State of the art security. Key card access for residents.” The three of us enter the lift as the man rattles on about all the complex features, and we arrive on the twentieth floor and to the only apartment on this level.
The sales guy stops listing the perks as he opens the door, and I know why. He’s letting the space speak for itself. Gleaming honey wood floors spill out to the glazing of the main room, the furniture set up and arranged to focus on the views over London. You can even see the Parliament buildings from here.
A glass spiral staircase takes you up to the second floor and the master bedroom. I’d want to start there, but this isn’t my viewing. It’s Landon’s, so I amble around the downstairs area and tell myself not to fall in love with the space. One, it’s not for me. And two, even if Landon takes it, I’ll never visit again. It will just hold a short space in my memory before it’s pushed aside by some other minutia of my day.
It’s not quite as big as the previous apartment. But then again, I can’t understand how anyone can drop five million on an apartment either. Presumably, it's not just about size. Who knows?
I’m so lost in thought, trying not to imagine what I’d do with the space if this were all mine when Landon comes up behind me. “If this is the best on offer, I suppose I better take it.”
“Really?” The excitement is apparent in my voice, but he looks at me. My calm, grey eyes seem to lock with his pale blue ones. And for that second, I don’t see the man who’s driven me mad.
“Excellent choice, Sir. Shall I go over the paperwork?”
“Miss Etherington will deal with it.” Landon dismisses the sales assistant, but no matter his tone, a smile creeps at the corner of my lip. He’s happy enough to spend five million on the apartment that was my favourite.
I must have done something right.
~
The start of rush hour hits hard as we creep our way back towards the office.
“Shall we celebrate? A drink, perhaps, to toast your new abode?” I ask, pleased with myself.
“A drink? With you?”
“Why not? Or if you’d rather not, can I at least grab a coffee?” I must be drunk on my one-time success from the apartment because I have no idea what I’m saying. “Actually, it’s fine. You can just drop me off at a Costa, and I’ll see you on Monday.” I turn away and look out the window, adopting Landon’s usual stance. He can be as tense as he likes. I, however, have done a good job today.
“If you want coffee, I refuse to drop you at a Costa.” The disapproval in his tone is evident, and I think back to the ritual that is his morning coffee. “Tony, drop us at The Bombay,” he instructs.
The Bombay doesn’t sound like a coffee house. My phone’s in my hand, and my fingers set to work googling the venue. Sure enough, it’s a member’s bar and restaurant. I keep my mouth closed and let the car deliver us, the small flame of excitement igniting within me.
Just around the corner from the office we eventually pull up outside of a sandstone-coloured building that looks more like a hotel. Landon leads the way with barely a backward glance to me. The gold plaque set into the stone by the revolving doors does indeed say The Bombay.
A man in a top hat raises it in greeting at Landon and throws me a quizzical glance as I keep up with his six-foot three-inch tall strides. The room is filled with wing-backed chairs, tables, and decorated in midnight blues and gilded paintings—very ‘old gentleman’s club’, with a touch of flare.
He takes a seat at a small round table, and I join him. Before I’ve set my bag on the ground, an impeccably dressed waiter is at our side. He doesn’t greet us or ask if we’d like to order.
“I’ll have a glass of the La Rioja Alta Gran Reserva 890.” The waiter nods and turns to me.
“Um, can I see the menu?”
“There’s no menu here, Miss Etherington. Just order what you want,” Landon clarifies.
