What does he mean?
I walk to the door of the bedroom and glance down the hallway. Several other closed doors line the wall. Extra bedrooms? The conference room the young man mentioned? I have no idea. Yes, I’m curious, but exhaustion takes over. Sleep first. Tomorrow, I’ll look around.
Maybe I can uncover some of his secrets.
…
I open my eyes. Gray skies greet me. Ugh. For a moment, I think I’m in Boston at Braden’s place. But I’m alone in the bed, and I remember.
I’m in Manhattan.
My phone sits on the night table where I plugged it in earlier. I grab it to check the time. Ten thirty a.m. Later than I normally sleep, but it was near four a.m. when I finally collapsed into bed.
Coffee. Must have coffee.
I rise, grab a robe from the bathroom, and pad out to the kitchen. At the Boston penthouse, Marilyn would already have the coffee ready. Here, apparently, it’s up to me. No problem. If there’s one thing I know how to do in a kitchen, it’s how to brew coffee.
I get a pot going, and then I open the refrigerator. Braden was right. It’s fully stocked. Bacon, eggs, cheese, deli meats, bread, juice, milk. Even a tube of chocolate chip cookie dough. I smile.
If Tessa were here, we’d have cookie dough for breakfast. Cookie dough and coffee, breakfast of champions. We ate that meal many times during our college years. I grab the cookie dough out of the fridge. Why not? It’s Sunday morning, and I have a meeting of a lifetime tomorrow. Why not indulge a little?
I rummage through the drawers until I find a knife, slice off a nice hunk of the cookie dough, and pour myself a cup of fresh coffee. I take my gourmet breakfast into the living area and sit down on the couch, feet on the coffee table. I grab the remote control from the end table and click on the TV.
Where is Braden? He can’t possibly still be in a meeting. He hasn’t had any sleep.
Of course, nothing as mundane as a lack of sleep would keep Braden from taking care of business.
Nothing illegal, he told me. I believe him. Braden values trust, and he wouldn’t lie to me.
I bite off a chunk of cookie dough and wash it down with a sip of coffee. Will Braden approve of my choice? I laugh out loud. Cookie dough for breakfast is probably a hard limit for Braden.
What is his hard limit in the bedroom?
And why won’t he talk about it?
The other doors in the hallway edge into my mind. I polish off half the cookie dough, drain my coffee cup, and stand. No time like the present.
I rise and walk back toward the bedroom. Shower first and then be nosy?
No. My curiosity is killing me. I pad down the hallway clad only in the bathrobe and stop at the first closed door. I turn the knob.
Inside is another bedroom, smaller than the master and decorated in olive green and ivory. The bed appears to be a queen. I move through the room, opening the door to a walk-in closet and then another to a full bath. Okay. Guest room. Nothing to see here.
The next door offers a library with a desk and shelves covered in books. Everything from memoirs to science fiction. Does Braden read? He says he does, but when does he find the time? Or does he just like being around books? If that’s the case, why no library in Boston?
Except there could be a library. He has another floor I haven’t explored at all, other than the bedroom he created for me. I walk along the shelves, sliding my fingertips over the spines of the books. I love books. Always have, and this room is a booklover’s paradise. The soothing aromas of leather bindings and paper waft toward me, and I inhale, closing my eyes.
A few minutes pass, and I open them, exploring the vast array of titles once more. He has the classics, and I pull out Jane Eyre, one of my favorites. Has Braden read this? I’ll try to remember to ask him. I return the book to its place and walk to the next shelf, which seems to be mostly nonfiction. I scan the titles quickly, hoping to find a book about photography, but to no avail. He does have some National Geographic photograph volumes, and I move toward one when—
Oh. My. God.
The Art of Bondage.
I pull out the book. It’s large—a coffee table book—and when I open it, I realize it’s not an instruction manual but a book of photographs. It truly shows the art of bondage. I’ve opened the book to the middle, and splayed across one whole page in glorious black and white is a woman, naked and on her knees. She’s bound with something that looks like regular off-white rope. Her ankles are tied together as well as her thighs, and her shoulders and arms are also bound, leading to her wrists, which are between her bound thighs and out of view.