Chapter 32 His Home, Her Haven
I nod. "Okay."
My eyes drift over his outfit again. "This is the most casual I've ever seen you."
He scoffs lightly, glancing down at himself. "Please."
Then he looks back at me, and something tender flickers in his eyes. He reaches out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
"I have a meeting with my lawyers over the Kieran issue," he says quietly. "I'll be back soon. Do you think you can stay alone?"
I glance toward the door, my heart suddenly kicking up again at the thought of being the only one here.
"I… don't know."
He nods like he expected that. "Don't worry. You'll be safe." His voice drops into a softer tone. "I redesigned the security system when I moved in here. You have nothing to worry about."
Lawrence's voice is confident. "No one can get in except me."
"Okay," I whisper, feeling better.
He pats my cheek softly.
"What about work?" I ask.
"Don't worry about work."
"Do they…" I pause. "Do my colleagues know I was dating Kieran?"
"No. No one knows the full details of your relationship with him. The FBI is keeping that part under wraps. Except you told people."
"Beverly and Jay know," I mutter.
"Just them?"
"Yes."
"That shouldn't be a problem. As long as they keep their mouths shut."
He cups my face gently with both hands now. "I told them to keep your name out of the papers or headlines because things would've gotten really messy for you."
"How'd you get the FBI to do something like that?"
"I know people."
"Oh. I see."
He gives me a little smirk.
"Thank you, Lawrence."
"Don't mention it."
I stare at him again before asking. "But when my colleagues don't see me at work, what do I tell them?"
He shrugs. "We'll cook up a little lie. Your granny's sick or something." His smile turns teasing.
I blush, my lips twitching. "So you lie, Mr Moore?"
"Only when it matters," he murmurs, kissing my forehead before stepping back.
"I'll should be back in two hours." He says, checking his watch. "Stay here. Rest. And eat."
I nod.
He grabs his phone and keys from the counter, moving towards the door.
"If you need anything, don't hesitate to call me," Lawrence says over his shoulder.
"I will," I reply.
He steps out, and the security system locks with a soft beep behind him.
It's only now, in broad daylight, and with a clear head, that I truly see the extent of the luxury surrounding me.
"Holy shit," I mutter, turning in a slow circle.
The living room alone could swallow my entire apartment. Two full walls are made of glass, letting in endless morning light and a panoramic view of Manhattan Central Park.
The floors are dark walnut, polished to a mirror shine. A massive sectional sofa in soft charcoal leather sits in the centre, facing a fireplace with a marble mantel and a flat-screen that must be at least 100 inches. Above it hangs a single abstract painting of bold strokes of black and gold.
The dining area has an ebony table with four high-backed chairs.
The hallway leads to three guest bedrooms, each with king beds, en-suite marble bathrooms, and city views.
Then the master suite, where I slept.
I wander further.
Aside from the wardrobe in Lawrence's bedroom, he has a walk-in closet that is the size of my living room back home, containing rows of shirts and suits in every shade of navy, grey, and black, shelves of polished leather shoes, and drawers of perfectly folded ties and pocket squares.
There's even a second, smaller section entirely dedicated to more casual pieces like cashmere sweaters and dark jeans.
How many clothes does one man need?
I find his workspace next, and my jaw drops again. Inside are three massive monitors mounted in an arc on a custom desk, with yet another bank of screens on the wall.
They're all turned off. But the servers hum quietly in a glass-fronted rack.
A single chair sits in the centre like a throne. I settle into it and spin slowly, picturing him here, unravelling whatever puzzle has his attention, with those sexy glasses on.
It's kinda intimate to me, seeing the space where he spends so much time alone.
My stomach growls in hunger, pulling me back to reality. So I head back to the kitchen.
Lawrence must've told the chef to prepare a feast because that is exactly what is awaiting me when I open the covered silver, nonstick pots.
Eventually, I end up with a plate of eggs, bacon, and fruit, plus coffee from the machine.
I eat standing at the island because I'm too restless to sit.
Afterwards, I wander back to the master bathroom for a shower. The space is crazily spacious and too luxurious for a bathroom.
The rainfall showerhead is almost the size of a dinner plate, not to mention the body jets along the walls.
Shelves hold a dozen body washes of different fragrances: citrus, sandalwood, lavender, eucalyptus, etc. And they are all expensive brands I've passed by when shopping.
I use them all, lathering until I smell like a luxury spa.
The warm water soothes my nerves, and the slight ache in my neck where the plaster covers Kieran's cut.
I close my eyes and try not to think about last night.
This is me doing everything I can to forget. I'm distracting myself by getting so absorbed in all of Lawrence's things.
When I'm done, I pad over to his closet again and pull out one of his white dress shirts. It's so crisp and starched, smelling of his cologne.
I wear it, rolling the sleeves to my elbows, and leaving the top few buttons undone.
Back in the living room, I change the channel from the news of Kieran's death to Stranger Things, stretching out on the sofa, and letting the familiar synth theme wash over me.
I don't know when I fall asleep.
But when I wake up, I wake up to rustling.
Startled, I shoot upright, my heart almost in my throat, only to see Lawrence setting shopping bags on the kitchen counter.
"You're back," I say, surprised.
Had I really slept that long?
"I didn't even hear you come in."
Lawrence glances at me. "You weren't answering your phone, Scarlett. I was worried."
Shit. My phone.
I scramble off the sofa and search for my purse. Lawrence must have helped me retrieve it from the car this morning before I woke up.
I find it three couches away. And when I turn it on, I wince.
Twenty-three missed calls from Beverly, a dozen texts, and three voicemails.
"I'm so sorry, I totally forgot about my phone… I slept off and…"
"It's fine." He cuts in smoothly, unpacking the bags.
I see groceries and a bakery box.
"I wanted to ask if you preferred banana-flavoured ice cream or strawberry. Or chocolate…"
"Banana," I reply with a small smile, as I walk toward him.
"…so I just got all ten available flavours," he finishes, looking away almost sheepishly as he sets out pint after pint of ice cream on the counter.