I ponder while the car makes a U-turn and pulls to a stop.
I talk to the driver and ask him to wait for me before climbing out and watching the limousine enter a parking lot down the street.
Okay. What if he’s here? What will I tell him?
Even if he is, I don’t have to talk to him. I’ll ask about him at the reception desk.
I straighten, rake my fingers through my hair and walk into the building. The doorman holds the door for me while the security detail greets me.
“I’m looking for Kai Walker,” I say.
He nods softly and gestures to the woman behind the concierge desk.
I truly expect her to say he is not home when she offers to call him and let him know I am here.
“Uh… No, no. It’s fine. I will, um… Can I come later?” I ask, eager to retreat.
“Sure,” she says.
“I wanted it to be a surprise,” I find myself mumbling, trying to explain my behavior.
“It’s against our policy to let people in without the owner’s approval,” she explains.
“Yes. It makes sense. As I said… Maybe later?”
Smiling wryly, I spin around and saunter to the exit when an idea pops into my head, and I swivel at the last moment and go back.
“Yes. Please announce him I am here,” I say in a more confident voice.
I wait in front of the desk, watching her as she places the call and talks to him.
To my chagrin, her expression is unreadable.
Nothing transpires from her smile when she lets him know I am here.
His answer is a clipped reply that makes the woman look at me and gesture me to the stairs or the elevator.
Whichever I prefer.
I opt for the stairs, the short trip allowing me to gather my thoughts. I have no idea what to expect or what I’m about to walk into.
I’m naturally tense because I’m obviously walking into a minefield.
Moments later, I freeze in front of his door.
I knock on it and hear no response. I knock again, and this time I enter.
I hear him talk on the phone in the other room. Seeing the apartment stirs a reaction in me. Everything feels surreal and tainted. As if the memories we’ve created are now gone or poisonous.
For someone who knows that I’m coming, he’s in no rush to greet me.
Frankly, I don’t blame him.
I stop in the doorway to the kitchen.
Backside propped against the kitchen island, he listens to someone on the phone. I stare at the back of his hair, the line of his shoulders, and his muscular torso.
He wears lounging clothes––a T-shirt and sweatpants––and looks tanned like he’s spent the entire day in the sun again.