I let out a nervous breath, knocking softly on his penthouse apartment. When he told me he lived at the Ritz-Carlton, I nearly passed out. I shift, staring down at my black flats. I hear a bolt unlock and he's suddenly there in a white button-down shirt and jeans. His sleeves are rolled, making the look somehow seem casual.
"Genevieve," he murmurs with a warm smile, opening the door wider.
I step forward, blushing already as he leans down, pressing his lips to mine. He steps back, gesturing me in.
"It smells good in here," I murmur, turning to look at him as he shuts the door behind him.
"Do you like Risotto?" he asks, touching my back gently.
"Yeah, I do. I only had it once but it was good."
"Okay, good. I had a chicken backup anyways in case you didn't... It's good with you?"
"Yeah, of course. Thank you for this- I know you worked today."
"Let me show you around."
I take the tour, surprised there are six bedrooms, four bathrooms and a rather-large gym here. Everything is how I pictured a billionaires home would look like. The fancy electronics, black furniture, expensive artwork hung in every bedroom. The only room that has any personality whatsoever is the living room, which holds pictures on the mantle of the fireplace, much like mine. While he walks to get wine from the kitchen, I look at each of them.
When I hear him walking back into the room, I point at a picture of a woman. "Is this your mom?"
He nods, handing me a glass of white wine. "Yes, that's her."
I look back, smiling. Tristan is the spitting image of her. "You weren't kidding when you said she was beautiful... What was her name?"
That brings a brighter smile to my face. I point to the man next to her.
"My father, Christopher."
"You were so cute." Tristan had curly, blonde hair as a teenager. He still has the bluest eyes I've ever seen- those don't seem to have changed. "Where were you guys?"
"A park, I think. I don't exactly remember. She was diagnosed shortly after that. She wouldn't let pictures be taken of her so this is the last one I have before she died."
"Oh." I swallow, looking back to the picture. "Well, it's a beautiful one."
I set my purse onto the couch, shrugging. "Do you need help with anything?"
"No, no. I've got it. Everything's done. I just have to make the salad."
"I'll help you."
He wraps his arm around my shoulders, pressing a soft kiss onto my hair as we walk towards the kitchen together.
"How are you feeling?" he asks, looking down at me. "Your scars are going away."
"Yeah, they're healing pretty fast, thankfully... I didn't want to show up to work looking like I've been beaten." I chuckle. "How about you? The stitches? Fine?"
"Yeah, the doctor's already explained to me that this scar is going to be a permanent one." He grabs a bowl, placing it onto the counter. "Want to cut the cucumber or lettuce?"
"I'll do the lettuce." I grab the head and a knife and begin chopping away. "I'm sorry... about the scar."
"Oh, it doesn't matter to me. I'm just lucky that that was what happened... It could have been so much worse, you know?"
YOU ARE READING
What do you do when disaster strikes? You survive. On the night before her entire life changes, Genevieve Harding was walking along the shoreline with a man she'd only just met. Tristan Maddox. A man who grazed the pages of the magazines and newspa...