“Makes sense.”
We had to stop in the lobby so Eli could get his mail, then we’d continue on to his apartment. I understood why he felt comfortable doing that when I actually noted the people there.
His building had a doorman, whom Eli waved to as we crossed to the mailroom; there were two security guards he greeted by name, both with access to a bank of monitors at the enormous curved counter they sat behind; and finally, a third security guard was walking the floor near the elevators, and she greeted Eli as we approached.
“Evening, Mr. Kohn.” She scanned a fob at the plate on the wall, making the up arrow light up.
“Evening, Paula.”
“Is this Mr. Harrington?”
“It is. I’m not sure yet how long he’ll be staying.”
“Good evening, Mr. Harrington.” She seemed pleased to meet me.
“Celso, please.”
“Celso,” she repeated with a smile before returning her attention to Eli. “I saw your request come through for his access fob. It will be programmed and messengered over first thing in the morning. As soon as it arrives, we’ll give you a call and bring it right up.”
“Thank you,” Eli said, and when the elevator chimed, he took hold of my bicep and steered me into the car before him. Inside, he put his arm around my shoulders, tucking me in close as we turned to face the front as the doors closed.
“How have I missed that this building is like Fort Knox?”
“Because it was never important before.”
Once the elevator stopped on his floor, the thirty-seventh, he got out first, and I followed him down the short hall. He unlocked his door and held it open so I could walk inside.
Everything inside Eli’s building—the polished steel accents in the lobby, the marble floors, the glossy white walls everywhere you looked, the bank-vault uniformity of the mailroom, pictures on the walls that lined the hall leading to his apartment, all black-and-white landscapes—all gave one the idea that inside it would be as sleek, industrial, and modern as everything else. Thankfully, that was not the case.
Eli had managed to make his apartment, much like his mother’s home in the heart of the Gold Coast, a warm oasis. There were paintings in every room, more cactus plants than I’d ever seen in my life, and a small library with built-in bookcases that apparently Ian had put in. The floors had been redone and were now weathered barnwood, and the sofas in the living room, three in all, were big, soft, and overstuffed, surrounding one long coffee table, all of it facing the movie-screen-sized television set.
There were antiques and floor-to-ceiling windows, a wine cellar in a closet space, glass-door cabinets and open shelves in the kitchen, with the same rustic floors and a wood-beam ceiling. It was just under twenty-two hundred square feet, but the overwhelming feeling you got when you walked in wascozy. I was a fan of the glossy black-painted back of his front door, the exposed brick entryway that had been painstakingly created, the ornate chandelier in the perfectly ordinary breakfast nook and an enormous fireplace. The whole space was unexpected. From the first time he’d brought me here, I loved it all. There was nothing pretentious or not inviting about the heavy rugs on the floors, his messy office, the immaculate laundry room, or his kitchen that had all the amenities for someone who couldn’t cook.
Standing beside one of the sofas, I had an epiphany. “You’re rich.”
“No,” he told me, about to walk by me, carrying two of my suitcases, only to stop and hold his hand out for the duffel I was still carrying.
“I can carry this to the guest room,” I grumbled.
“Yes, I know, but just give it to me and sit down before you pass out.”
Doing as told, I gave him my duffel that was so full we had both barely managed to get zipped up, and I watched as he left the room, taking a right turn that I knew led to a short hall where, on the left, was the guest bathroom and then the room where I would be staying. It had a lovely view of the lake, from where we’d watched the fireworks at Navy Pier the year before. I doubted I’d be able to sleep tonight, and if I could, it would be on one of the sofas in the living room, curled up under a blanket, I was sure.
Once he returned, he went into his kitchen, and I watched him move around.
“I’m making you some green tea,” he explained as though I’d asked him.
“I’ve never actually noticed before, but this place is really nice,” I told him. “How can you not be rich?”
“My mother’s rich, as you know,” he clarified. “She was married to a plumber who invested well and left her a considerable fortune.”
“And?”
“And he married rich to begin with.”
“Meaning your mother had money when she married your father.”
“She did.”