Vacant Heart

Chapter Forty

My palms show my nervousness. Exiting the steel elevator, I enter the twenty-third floor of the building Aidan sent me the address of, a chilled bottle of Chenin Blanc and French pastries in hand. It may be a bit too much, to come baring gifts, but it's better than showing up empty-handed.

Since his location wasn't far from my own apartment, I made the decision to walk, judging that my weary legs needed the exercise. A French bistro was on the way, the window full of gorgeous cakes and tarts. The wine was a necessity, a tension-breaker I'm sure will be needed.

It's no surprise that his building was one of the better ones in downtown Seattle, having done my own secret research on him. His inheritance is a subject mentioned often in articles previously written about him, an unfair punch line usually added beside his impressive collections of shots. There was a file in my drawer, most likely conjured up pre-romance. It contained vague details of his life.

His parent's car crash.

His wife and child's unfortunate accident.

The immense fortune and estate left to him by his senator father. The vast collection of antiques and artworks that were collected by his mother. Stocks that have accumulated triple, quadruple their initial worth over the years...and he still has presence in the stock market.

His door is tucked at the dead end of the hallway, a wall of glass displaying some gorgeous views of the city. I double check to ensure I'm not knocking on the wrong door at nine o'clock at night, and when I'm reassured I'm where I should be, I do the deed, stiffening for bravery.

He's just a man. He's just a man. Don't think about what he knows, what you don't.

Just get to know him.

The door opens and he's there, dressed in dark jeans and a black v-cut sweater, sleeves pushed up his forearms. Aidan exhales at the sight of me, as if he'd not expected that I'd actually show. I'm slightly more formal, dressed in what I wore at work—a creamy mini dress and flats—a thin jacket draped over it to block out the low temperatures of the night. My legs are frozen.

I've run out of openers, struck silent, my palms so clammy that my grip tightens on the items I've brought so I won't drop them. Some of his hair is tucked back behind his ear, simply, the other side hanging in silky waves to the nape of his neck.

"Hi," he murmurs, stepping back so I can pass through into the apartment. Admittedly, I hesitate in the threshold, unsure as to what I'm doing, why I've invited myself over here, but it's too late for second-guessing.

He shuts the door behind me, and I thrust the gifts into his hands, neurotically.

"I brought some pastries, some wine."

He smiles, clearly amused by the action, mortifying me even further, which until now I hadn't thought was possible. I dedicate my attention to other things—his apartment, for one. I stop in the middle of the very spacious living room with a nicer view of the city than my own has, and my first coherent statement of the night arises.

"You have no furniture," I say, curiously. It's not completely true. There's a couch, one couch. A fireplace built into the wall, burning bright. There's a coffee table with a lamp on it. Other than that, his apartment seems barren, unlivable.

"I only really need the bedroom. I'm never in the apartment."

"Where are you then? What do you do?"

"I'm working."

I turn, watching him set down the bag and wine into the kitchen, which is visible by a divider.