Page 8 of Holiday Interference
They’re just off Viper Row—sleek glass, high-security, designed for players who want privacy and proximity without a media circus.
He leads me through the front entrance, and the air is so warm, I sigh in relief, still shivering. “Oh, thank God. I’m freezing.”
“Elevators are over here. Evening, Burt.” He waves to the concierge.
We don’t speak as the lights hum overhead, and we both drip melting snow onto the floor.
I can feel the tension in the air shift—tighten, stretch, breathe.
He glances down at my hand, where I’m gripping my tote strap like a lifeline.
“I’m on the fourth floor,” he says.
“Do you always bring stranded women back to your place?”
“Only the ones who threaten to drive in ice storms.”
The corner of my mouth lifts. I hate that he’s funny. That he’s warm beneath the quiet. That I can feel something in me loosening, and I don’t know how to stop it.
The elevator dings.
We step into a hallway lined with soft lighting and polished concrete floors. His apartment is halfway down. He unlocks it without hesitation and pushes the door open.
It’s clean. Modern. Minimalist with soft edges. Big windows, just like he said.
Thankfully, his power is still on, keeping the air warm.
Setting his keys down on a side table, he says, “Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”
I nod, stepping out of my flats then wipe melted snow off my dress.
Walking further into his place, I glance around. Kitchen. Sofa. Books. A throw blanket that looks like it was actually used.
It’s…nice. Not quite lived-in with some boxes stacked against the wall. But not messy. Like him.
“Bathroom’s down the hall,” he says. “Towels are clean. I’ve got sweatpants and t-shirts or a flannel if you want to change.”
I nod once, peeling off my coat, before heading down the hall to the bathroom. “Thank you.”
When I get in there, I’m surprised to see it’s as spotless as the rest of the place. No toothpaste in the sink. No chaos. Just quiet.
I quickly change into the T-shirt, covering it with a flannel pajama top, and oversized sweats I have to roll up several times just to see my feet.
And I can’t help myself. I bury my nose into the neck of the softest T-shirt I’ve ever worn and inhale. It smells like laundry and man.
Cal to be exact.
My cheeks are flushed in the mirror as I pull my damp curls into a bun on my head. “What is wrong with you? You’re a grown ass woman, not some young girl who’s never been in a man’s apartment. You can handle this. You’ve handled worse.”
I nod at my reflection, satisfied with my mini pep talk, then drape my dress over the shower rod to dry.
When I come out, Cal’s changed into a T-shirt and sweats as well, standing by the kitchen with a glass of water. He hands it to me without a word.
“Thanks.”
“You okay?”
“I’m good.”
