Page 98 of Recklessly Rogue

Is he kidding?

This is unbelievable.

Last night, I told him I felt like things were going well in Emerald and that I had done everything I needed to for April and Elliot. He agreed.

Then I told him I needed to prepare for my move to New Orleans and that I thought it would be better to get everything in place before Scarlett and Cian returned to Emerald. I need to get out of their way sooner versus later so they can settle into their new married-couple routine. He said he understood.

Then, in typical Henry fashion, he arranged for us to use the O’Grady’s private jet, and less than twenty-four hours later, I’m standing in the middle of the living room of a luxury four-bedroom, four-bath apartment in the warehouse district of New Orleans.

“Do you like it?” he asks when I haven’t answered after several seconds.

Of course he wasn’t going to let me find my own apartment. Of course he took over. Of course he’s going to insist on approving wherever I live.

And the guy has impeccable taste.

If you’re a member of the royal fucking family of Cara.

The apartment is breathtaking.

We’re on the top floor of the building in a corner unit. The ceiling soars at least sixteen feet above us. Two of the apartment’s walls are exposed brick. The floor is Brazilian hardwood—I wouldn’t have known that if the listing didn’t say that— and the living room area is covered with a gorgeous, multicolored woven rug.

Natural light spills into the apartment through floor-to-ceiling windows that are covered by gauzy white curtains. The same windows are replicated in the master bedroom. There are also French doors off the kitchen that open onto a private balcony that overlooks the center courtyard that boasts a gorgeous stone fountain and a plethora of plants and flowers around the stone patio with adorable round wrought iron tables and chairs.

The whole apartment comes furnished, from the bisque-colored, four-piece sectional sofa to the I-don’t-even-know-how-many–inches-large flatscreen television mounted on the wall to the chef’s kitchen with stone countertops, stainless steel appliances, dishes, pots, and pans, and even dish towels, that are more plush than the nicest bath towel I’ve ever owned.

The enormous four-poster bed in the master suite is the type of bed I imagined celebrities were sleeping on in the high-end hotels in downtown New Orleans when they visited.

Each bedroom has an ensuite bathroom. The master has both a glass-encased rainfall shower and a clawfoot soaker tub that’s deep enough that I feel I might need to buy a snorkel.

“It’s gorgeous. Absolutely,” I tell him.

He nods as if that was exactly the answer he was expecting. “I’m glad you think so.”

“It’s also over the top,” I add. “Of course.”

Henry found this place. Or had some highly paid real estate agent who only deals with people who have seven figures or more in their bank account find this place.

Henry has also informed me that he’s going to be paying for this place.

I get it. I’m leaving Emerald, leaving him, I’m going to be out of reach, he’s not going to be able to just bop down to the coffee shop and make sure everyone is treating me well.

But this is too much.

I do really love it, though.

“It’s exactly the kind of place I want to picture you in,” he tells me. “I would love it if you would turn one of the bedrooms into an office. A place where you can study.”

I spread my arms and turn a three-sixty. “There are so many places I can study. The gorgeous dining table,” I say, pointing to the huge cherrywood table that seats eight, for fuck’s sake. “The breakfast bar. The couch. The balcony. My bedroom. I could easily put a desk in there.”

“So you do intend to fill the bedrooms up with adoptees at the first chance you get.”

I grin. I was surprised when he showed me a place with four bedrooms. “You think I’ll find roommates?”

“No, I think you’ll find people that need some help and you’ll let them move in for free.”

He knows me so well. “I promise to do background checks.”

“Yes,” he says firmly. “You will.”

---