Page 20 of Mr. Hotshot CEO
Courtney
When we step out ofChris’s Coffee Shop, a sleek black car is waiting for us by the curb. It’s only a short ride to Julian’s building, which is on King Street, a little west of the Financial District. Excellent. Close enough that I’ll be able to walk to work. It would suck if he lived far away, but he’d probably hire a car to drive me to and from work anyway, so it wouldn’t be that much of a hassle.
It’s a very tall building, and we take the elevator up to the top floor.
Because, of course, he lives in the penthouse.
When the elevator doors open, he places his hand on my lower back and guides me into his home, the simple contact drawing all my attention.
Until he flips on the lights and I see his penthouse.
I’ve been in nice houses before, but I’ve never been in anything quite like this. It’s massive and mostly open plan, so I can see a lot of it at once, including the fancy stainless steel appliances in the kitchen and the enormous marble kitchen island. There are two sinks and tons of counter space; even that seems like a luxury to me.
I slip off my shoes and walk around. In the living room, there’s a large white sectional couch, and I sit down with a little bounce. A white couch seems horribly impractical, but I suppose he can afford to hire a cleaner—or, hell, just buy a new couch—if he spills a three-hundred-dollar bottle of red wine on it.
Next to the sectional couch is a black leather recliner, and ooh, it’s the most comfortable thing ever. Across the wall from the chair is an enormous screen.
“How many inches is that?” I ask.
Julian answers, but I don’t properly register his response because the word “inches” has me thinking of something else.
Not happening, Courtney.
There are pieces of art scattered across his penthouse, although I suppose “scattered” isn’t the right word. I’m sure they were carefully placed by his interior decorator—hell, maybe a team of interior decorators.
I wander around and gasp as I approach the window. It faces south, and I can see the lights glittering in the small piece of Toronto between King Street and the water, and then the Toronto Islands and the black expanse of Lake Ontario beyond.
“Oh my God,” I say. “This is incredible.”
I feel embarrassed for gushing over the view, but that’s the sort of thing he wants me to do, isn’t it? He likes the fact that I can appreciate the little things.
Though this is far from a little thing.
“Would you like to see the view to the north?” he asks.
“Yes, please!” I say, like an eager schoolgirl.
He guides me down the hallway and into a bedroom at the far end. The window encompasses one entire wall of the room. The view is incredible, all the lights of a city of millions of people. It makes me feel small and insignificant, but at the same time, I feel blessed that I have the chance to see the world like this.
I glance at Julian, who’s staring out the window.
“I guess it’s pretty incredible,” he says. “But I’m used to it. I see it every day.”
His gaze lands on me, and I feel a shiver down my spine.
“This is your bedroom.” He gestures around the room. “You can see this view every day for the next two weeks.”
The room is nearly as big as my entire apartment, and this is theguestroom. I wonder how often he has guests here and whether there are multiple guest rooms.
I wonder whathisbedroom looks like.
Don’t go there.
In the middle of my new room is a king-sized bed with a soft grey duvet and a mountain of pillows. This seems too fussy for Julian, but then again, this isn’t his room, and I bet he wasn’t the one who set it up. There are a couple of pen-and-ink drawings on the walls and a comfy-looking black couch on the far side, as well as a television.
Julian hands me a remote. “If you want to watch television in bed, press this button.” When he presses it, a second screen pops down in front of the bed.
I’m afraid I’m going to break something.
