Lured into Love (Blossom in Winter #2) - Melanie Martins Page 0,71
lobby is fancy as fuck! There is even a reception desk like in a hotel!
“Good afternoon,” the receptionist greets me with a pleasant voice. “How may I help you?”
“Um, good afternoon. I’ve got an appointment with Mr. Van Dieren,” I tell him.
“Sure.” The receptionist takes a sheet of paper and a pen and puts them on the reception desk. “Write your name and signature here,” he says, pointing to blank spaces on the paper. “And I also need an ID card.”
“Sure.” Damn, this is security to a whole new level.
“Very well. This way, please.” I follow the receptionist to the lift, where he presses the button that says “PH.”
I get in and wait patiently, while listening to the chill elevator music, before arriving at the PH floor. My breathing is faster than usual though. And I’m not sure why.
As the doors open wide, I see another hallway with only one door at the end. I guess that’s where he lives, since I see “PH” written on the wall beside the door. I press the doorbell and wait, my anxiety rising. After a few seconds, someone finally unlocks and opens the door.
My eyes land on a woman dressed in a dark blue uniform with a white apron—she must be the housekeeper. “Please come in,” she says with an accent.
As I step in, my eyes can’t help but widen in surprise. Wow. What a vision this place is! The interior design is so clean, minimalist, and contemporary that it’s surely won some kind of award. A female French singer is crooning from the speakers. Her dramatic voice, full of suffering and grief, gives me goosebumps, and it makes this place kind of scary.
“Follow me, please.” I follow the lady through the immaculate open space to the outdoor terrace. “Wait here,” she says as I’m about to cross the doorway onto the terrace. Looking up, I smile at the impressive skyline this place offers. Talk about a million-dollar view.
Then my eyes land on the back of a tall man standing afar, his hands on the steel railing as he contemplates the view. He looks at the lady, who whispers something to him, and then his head turns to the side, looking at me with a smirk. I do the same before I see he’s holding a cigarette. Oh, great! Does Petra know he smokes? I shake my head in displeasure. What a bad influence this guy must be.
“Matthew,” Alex greets. I didn’t even realize he’s now standing right in front of me. He looks younger today, maybe because he’s also sporting a pair of jeans and a slim Henley shirt. His brown hair is just as unbrushed as mine. He shakes my hand, but not as strongly as last time. “Great to see you.”
Keeping a steady and firm voice, I say, “Mr. Van Dieren.”
“Are you hungry?” he asks rhetorically, inviting me into another room. “Maria made a vegan tortilla for you.”
I squint my eyes immediately. “How do you know I’m vegan?” I ask, annoyance thick in my tone. I follow his pace and find myself in a spacious, bright room with lacquer-paneled walls and floor-to-ceiling windows, a big glass dinner table at the center.
“I did a little background check on you,” he casually says, taking a seat at the table.
Of course he did. “And did you find anything exciting?” I ask, also sitting down as Maria places the famous tortilla in front of me. And I must confess, it looks really delicious.
“Not much, so either your dad cleared your record or you’re really a saint.”
“Not everyone is a criminal, you know…” I say as I start cutting a bite.
“Not everyone has a dad who’s the attorney general of the state of New York.” But I put the cutlery down just as fast. We remain mute as we stare at each other. His eyes study me meticulously, ready to catch any missteps. “If there is anything I should know, you better tell me now, ‘cause I’ve got a pretty good flair for finding things people don’t want me to.”
I’m starting to understand why Petra likes him. He seems smart. And I like smart. “Alright, um, I drank a beer at a party last year, and the cops came ‘cause of the neighbors. Needless to say, we got in trouble.”
“Anything else?”
“I don’t think so,” I reply, containing the urge to attack the tortilla.
“Who is Sarah Leniski?” he asks. And my jaw nearly falls. Did he spy on our entire group or what?