The two-level penthouse has living and dining rooms and a kitchen in a simple and modern open design. It also has leather furnishings, a vaulted ceiling, tall walls, and a loft with four bedrooms.
“I thought it’d take you at least a month to find something suitable,” she says. “When did you buy this?”
“Three weeks ago. My realtor understood what I wanted.”
“You didn’t pick these out yourself, did you?” She gestures at the sectionals and chrome and glass tables.
“No time for that. I have money to make, an empire to build.”
She snickers. “A man’s gotta have some fun too. You work too much.”
“Uh-huh. And did you enjoy flying first class?”
She sticks her tongue out. “I’ll settle for business if you promise to relax a little more.”
I laugh over her left-field compromise, then pad over to the kitchen. “Want anything to drink? Eat?” It’s past dinner time, but Kristen has a bad habit of forgetting to eat when she’s preoccupied with something. And sightseeing—even if it’s a city she knows as well as L.A.—counts as “something.”
“What do you have?”
“Everything you like.” I had my housekeeper stock the fridge with Kristen’s favorites earlier today.
“A turkey and ham sandwich then.”
I gesture at the marble countertop. “Pull up a stool.”
Then, just like old times, I make her a sandwich with the crusty bread she loves so much, extra mustard, no onions or pickles. She bites into it and moans. “This is it. God, I missed this in Paris.”
“Parisian sandwiches not good enough for you?”
“They weren’t the same. They weren’t made by you.”
A smile tugs at my lips. I place a tall glass of OJ on the rocks, her favorite to drink with the sandwich.
“See? People in Paris didn’t know how I like OJ, either.”
I make a sandwich for myself, using roast beef rather than turkey and ham. I join her at the counter with a glass of Merlot, and we eat in companionable silence.
Kristen finishes half her food before saying, “I saw your high-society photos. You look great in a tux.”
“Meh. Everyone looks great in a tux.”
“Not the way you do.” She leans closer. “But your date… She’s married, isn’t she?”
“Don’t worry. Her husband knew we were going to the event.”
Her eyebrows rise. “They have an open marriage?”
I scrunch my face. “How do you know about stuff like that?”
“Uh, because I’m not a little kid anymore?”
“I know, but…” It seems weird my kid sister is all grown up. She’s been that way for some years now, but I still have a hard time thinking of her as anything other than a kid sister I need to watch out for.
“Anyway, the date?” Kristen prompts.
“She’s nothing. Her husband couldn’t go at the last minute, but she wanted to go and asked me to accompany her.” I don’t add that if it hadn’t been Elizabeth’s party, I would’ve told Annabelle Underhill to find someone else.
“I see.” Kristen chases her sandwich with the OJ. Ice clinks in the glass as she puts it down. “I was wondering why Antoine didn’t come to the airport. I thought he was picking me up and waited half an hour before I grabbed a cab.” She pouts.