“I should have thought to call,” she muttered as she keyed in her sister’s number.
“You’re out of practice,” he teased. And now, his grin returned. “I want you to feel comfortable in my apartment. Make the call, Ivy.”
She dialed the familiar number and listened to the rings.
“Hello?” her sister’s sleepy voice said.
“Kate, I’m sorry to wake you—”
“It’s midnight! Are you all right?” Kate demanded, sounding instantly more alert. “What’s happened? Did you wreck your car leaving the city? I should have told you to take the train down.”
“Kate, I’m fine.” Ivy drew a deep breath. “I’m with Carter Burke. I’ll call you in the morning. I just needed someone to know. And this is his cell.”
“Your boss? In the middle of the night?” Kate let out a burst of laughter. “It’s about time you took a break from that lab, Princess Workaholic.”
“Well, this isn’t—”
“I’m proud of you, Ivy,” she said. “You need to do something for you once in a while. Even if that means sleeping with your boss. I’ll try to swallow my jealousy while I go back to bed and wait for my four-year-old alarm clock to wake me at dawn. Go and have fun—hopefully naked fun—with Carter Burke.”
She ended the call and handed the phone back to Carter. A peek out the window and she knew they’d left Times Square—and the traffic—behind. The next stop was Carter’s favorite place in New York City.
And hopefully some naked fun.
She smiled as the car sped through a yellow light. The adventure wasn’t over yet, even if her reasons for being out with Carter Burke were shifting with each passing intersection.
Chapter 16
“Why is this your favorite place in all of New York City?” Ivy followed him into the elevator, her gown trailing over the lobby’s marble floors.
Carter inserted his key into the panel and hit the button for the top floor of the skyscraper nestled in the heart of the Financial District. “Wait until you see the view from the roof deck.”
Also, my bed is here.
He’d nearly made love to her next to a T. rex. Then he’d been tempted to strip off her dress under the stars in Central Park. But after her two-year break from dating—and, presumably, sex—Ivy Grant deserved privacy—and a bed.
The elevator door opened into his apartment. He took her hand and drew her into the space. Keeping his gaze fixed on her, he studied her reaction. He’d rejected his mother’s suggestion that he hire a decorator. He had two requirements for his furniture—simple and comfortable.
“So this is the lion’s den.” She walked into his living room. “I’m impressed.”
“By a pair of overstuffed recliners and a leather couch?” He followed her into his space, scanning her expression for clues.
“Plus a practical, yet understated rug and, wait, is that a tree trunk topped in glass that you’re using as a coffee table?”
“A guy I served with made that. It’s teak root and weighs a ton,” he said.
“It’s a functional work of art in your living room.” She waved to the space. “Everything in here is practical, but not fussy.”
He moved behind her and placed his hands on her waist. “You thought I would be fussy? About furniture?”
She leaned her head back against his chest. “You did order a frothy pineapple vodka cocktail.”
“I always try the drinks made in-house,” he said. “And my mom’s the fussy one. She decorated her place from top to bottom, and then redecorated it. Still, the best part about her apartment is the view of Central Park.”
“You bought your mom a fancy uptown apartment,” she said softly. “And selected a modest downtown place for yourself.”
“Modest? Do I detect a note of sarcasm, Ms. Grant?”
“Perhaps,” she said with a grin.