Nathan’s doorman gave Emma a suspicious once-over when she stood in his lobby that evening but relented after getting a second look at her. She was in torn jeans, Chucks, and a grey NYU sweatshirt, her hair in a high ponytail that trailed down her back. The strap of her pale pink bra showed where the neck of the sweatshirt had been stretched out from use. The whole Bergdorf’s excursion had soured her on getting dolled up, so she went with comfort. After checking his computer screen, the doorman gave her a warm grin.
“Not a lot of gals visit Mr. Bishop dressed like that.”
The doorman returned his reading glasses to the perch on his nose. He had a long scar that cut from his brow to his jawline on the right side of his face. Other than that, with his snowy hair and kind smile, he could have been a grandfather in a children’s book.
“I’m special,” she quipped.
“Oh, there’s no doubt about that. He’s expecting you. Go on up.” He gave her a finger gun and indicated the elevator with a nod of his head.
“Thank you...”
“Leonard.”
“Thanks, Leonard. I’m Emma”
“Have a good evening, Emma.”
Leonard returned to his detective novel, and Emma stood in front of the elevator doors in a quandary. It could be hours before someone returned to this building to use the elevator, and even then, Nathan had the only apartment on the top floor. She hadn’t thought this through. The doors slid open, and she stood frozen in place. They closed again, and she stared at her knotted fingers. When she felt a hand on her shoulder, she jumped and spun to face Leonard, who had appeared behind her.
“This way.”
She followed him around a wide corner, and he entered a code by a door that he pushed open to reveal a stairwell.
“Better?”
“How did you know?”
“My wife. She was stuck in an elevator in the Chrysler Building for six hours when she was a kid. Hates the damn things.” Emma gave him a grateful smile as he continued. “Go on up until you see the door marked ten. I’ll watch you on the security feed and unlock the door remotely.”
She walked past his extended arm and turned back to him.
“Leonard?”
“Yes, Emma?”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
It was 3:58 when she pushed through the door to a broad, open hallway with the elevator doors to the right and the double doors leading to Nathan’s apartment to the left. Between the two was a circular table holding a Kangxi porcelain bowl filled with floating lotus blossoms. The teak floors were bare, and the walls were papered in a subtly textured slate grey. The lighting was muted. The serenity of the space had her stopping to take a slow breath and compose herself. Emma was always late, usually by design. She was only ever prompt for her father because he would panic, and Caroline because she would pull Emma’s hair if she made her sit somewhere alone. Everybody else could wait. With Nathan, though, she was the one who couldn’t wait. She was excited for their date—she knew it was foolish, but in her mind, it was a date. There was no way around it. Plus, she got the distinct feeling people did not keep him waiting, and she wanted to please him. She knocked softly.
He pulled open the door without looking her way or halting his phone conversation. He walked purposefully into a large living room. The apartment was a Manhattan Classic Eight. A large center gallery opened to a bright living room. The space was distinctly masculine without being a bachelor pad. The chocolate suede couch and matching wingback chairs surrounded a coffee table made from a repurposed stable door. The Aubusson rug was a mix of rich gold and dark wine and stopped before two sets of French doors which led to a terrace balcony. Off in the corner, on a small pedestal, a Frederick Remington bronze depicted a raging bull. Nathan’s voice was firm and infused with a current of anger that kept Emma in the doorway. He was wearing a suit, a gunmetal gray three-button number that looked like Tom Ford had tailored it personally, which puzzled her as he was working from home, but her unasked question was explained by his next utterance into the phone.
“I just met with my guys, and that’s not their version of things.” He paused listening. “All right. Keep me updated.” He ended the call without pause and pinched the bridge of his nose. Emma wondered if he had forgotten she was there. Then he turned and looked at her. She tried to appear reassuring, smiled, shoved her hands into her back pockets and shrugged. Nathan just stood there and stared.
“Fucking perfect.” He shook his head slightly with amused disbelief.
There was that word. Perfect. And for the first time, it filled her with something other than dread. She didn’t look perfect, far from it, but she knew the second she saw him why he’d said it.
Under normal circumstances the term triggered something ugly; occasionally it almost made her physically sick. But the way Nathan had said it.... It wasn’t a general declaration about perfection; rather, it was about Emma in this particular moment. He meant she was perfect for him. He picked up his phone.
“Greta, cancel Refuge. Have them send up two medium-rare strips with twice-baked potatoes,” he glanced at Emma. “Spinach or artichokes?”
She gave him a raised brow that said, are you kidding?
“Artichokes. And that chocolate thing I like. Yes, that. About 6:30.” He ended the call. “Give me five minutes.” He disappeared down a hall, tugging at his tie. She tentatively took a step in.
“Make yourself at home, Emma.” He spoke over his shoulder before turning a corner.