her guess had been right. Number 78 turned out to be a quarter of the way up the block, an unassuming twelve-or thirteen-story building that might have once held small factories on each floor before being converted into apartments when SoHo became fashionable to live in. The exterior was sooty with age, as if they still burned coal in New York. There was a small vestibule and beyond that, behind a locked door, was a nondescript lobby with no doorman. She looked behind her and glimpsed people walking along Spring Street. But Crosby was deserted.
As soon as she stepped inside the vestibule and saw the intercom panel, she let out a groan. She’d never asked Keaton for an apartment number. He was probably subletting and his name wouldn’t be on the buzzer. Her eyes raced down the two rows of buttons. To her relief, she spotted his name next to PH2.
“Hi there,” he answered after she’d pressed the button. “Come on up. Penthouse 2. On twelve.”
The buzzer sounded, nearly making her jump. She pushed the door and stepped inside the lobby. One wall was mirrored, which made the space seem bigger than it was, and she glanced at her reflection. Her cheeks were less flushed but still pink. I’m really going to do this, she thought. She felt nervous but also nearly drunk with anticipation. It had been ages since she’d felt seductive or yearned for—or charged with desire.
She half-expected music to be playing (please don’t let it be Barry White, she prayed), but when Keaton answered the door of his apartment—smiling, his jacket off and shirtsleeves rolled—it was absolutely silent behind him.
“I was beginning to worry that you’d opted for a crème brûlée instead of an after-dinner drink with me,” he said. He was teasing her, she knew. He was the kind of guy who would never be bested by a crème brûlée. He accepted her coat and she followed him into the apartment.
The place was beyond anything she could have predicted from the lobby down below—a double-height loft with open living, dining, and kitchen areas, all decorated in whites and beiges. A staircase led up to a bookcase-lined mezzanine. And, most spectacular of all: a large terrace beyond French doors. There were a few soft lights on out there and she could see teak tables and chairs, a couple of chaise longues, and several box trees.
“This is fantastic,” she said. “You must be subletting, right?” As she set her purse down at the far end of a creamy white sofa, she noticed the hallway that shot off to the left, most likely to the bedroom. Her heart knocked against her chest.
“No, I actually bought it six months ago—I knew I was coming back to New York one way or another. What would you like to drink? I’ve got white wine chilled. Or would you prefer cognac?”
“Cognac sounds good,” she said.
Keaton laid her trench coat across the arm of the sofa and walked to the kitchen area. While he had his back to her, Lake surveyed the space. Though it was still sparsely decorated, there were a few stunning pieces. On one wall was a striking abstract painting of a man with an elongated head. She stepped closer. Below it was a sleek side table with a primitive wooden bowl sitting on top. She glanced inside the bowl. Nestled at the bottom were a few coins and an ATM slip. Also a business card from a woman named Ashley Triffin, an event planner. And a scrap of paper with the name Melanie Turnbull scrawled on it. Well, she thought, I knew he was a player.
“Here you go,” Keaton said, walking up with their drinks. As she accepted the glass, she saw that his arms were tan, muscular, and covered with hair so light it looked like it had been bleached by sunlight. “Why don’t we go out to the terrace?”
He opened one of the French doors and motioned her outside. The view was mainly north—to a dazzling, glittering midtown, endless rooftops and wooden water tanks. All set against a blue-black sky. She could hear the faint hum of traffic twelve stories below and the sporadic blare of a car horn.
“I feel like I’m looking at Oz,” she said as a soft breeze lifted the back of her hair. “It seems almost unreal.”
“I’ve practically lived out here this summer,” he said. “One night I even dragged a sleeping bag onto a lounge chair and slept here.”