Page 184 of Callan

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve already figured out Callan is a man of means––money is not an issue for him––and visiting his family’s mansion sealed the idea that he is a wealthy man.

But even so, there’s a long road from the man wearing red Santa pants and sliding onto my balcony and the confident host walking across a Neo–French Classic style place featuring a vast room at the entrance that could easily accommodate a large event.

Soaring ceilings, tall windows overlooking Central Park, wood-burning fireplaces, and a modern bedroom with a king-size bed and French doors opening onto a sizable terrace take my breath away.

His footsteps are already trailing the marble floors leading to an oversized bathroom with an open arched entrance and a walk-in shower the size of my apartment.

In a city where every bit of space is utilized judiciously, this place looks like a lavish splurge.

I’m still unsure whether this is his penthouse, the place he occasionally lives in, or someone else’s space, as I said before, and we are mere trespassers––a man eager to impress a woman.

Honestly, the place looks like it’s been staged for a photo spread in a real estate magazine.

Nothing is out of place, and to say this is minimalism at its best would be a big understatement.

I counted a long table in the formal dining room, flowing drapes, a few armchairs, sofas, and a couple of lounging chairs on the terrace.

And that’s about it.

There is a chest drawer in the bedroom and also a working fireplace.

I’m impressed. And I'm also worried that the actual owner might show up and kick us out.

“Make yourself comfortable.”

His voice rings behind me, startling me.

“Oh… I’m sorry,” I apologize for my reaction.

“Are you all right?” he asks, his chin tilted down, a soft smile on his lips as he takes in my baffled expression.

He tugs at his cufflinks while I shift my focus to his clothes for a change.

He traded his regular clothes for a suit and a simple yet elegant white dress shirt.

His diamond cufflinks sparkle against his crisp shirt.

Content with how they look, he tugs at the sleeves and makes sure his jacket sits right.

“Yeah… Yes. I’m fine,” I say in a wavering voice.

“Let me get that for you,” he replies, pointing to my coat.

I hand him my coat, and he exits the bedroom while I walk to the patio doors.

Speaking about a real terrace.

Skyscrapers tear into the sky, supple and daring.

His voice echoes inside the room, and I shift my eyes in that direction. Talking on the phone, he walks across and exits the bedroom before entering the main room.

Moments later, I hear more voices, and curious, I walk in.

“Where would you like to eat?” Callan asks when I enter the dining room.

I notice a couple of people pushing a food cart behind him.

That’s a tough question.

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