CHAPTER FOUR
Brock
There hadn’t been any pictures of her in her apartment. Which was something that experience told me to expect.
Hell, I’d fucked my way through most of the wealthy women in the country. Every single one of them had at least half a dozen pictures of them around the house. Smiling on a tropical beach, on a tennis court with a racket in hand, at a charity event in a flowing gown.
But Miranda Coulter had no pictures around her lavish apartment, just art. And a lot of it.
The apartment itself was both expected and a surprise.
First, she had the penthouse. And when you were closing in on being a billionaire, you tended to splurge for the top level. She didn’t share the floor with another penthouse, either. Oh, no. Instead, she had an apartment that had to be over four thousand square feet. With it’s own private corridor and elevator and a balcony that wrapped nearly around the whole building.
What was surprising was that she hadn’t designed it in the very popular minimalistic style that seemed to be all over every wealthy person’s house that I’d been to in the past several years.
It was… fine.
But it never felt homey, comfortable, like a place anyone would want to call home.
Just a place to stay here and there.
And, I guess, that was what a lot of houses and apartments were for the ultra-wealthy, since they had houses all over the world, and bopped between them all the time.
But Miranda didn’t settle for that cold style.
Oh, no.
Everything about her apartment was a mix of traditional, mid-century modern, modern, and Victorian, somehow all together. And it worked.
There were pops of minimal wallpaper to warm things up, tufted material, lots of drapery, carpets, and fabrics. The woods were deeper, rich tones, but the walls were mostly in neutral gray or beige shades.
Mix all that with the personal touches. Like her art and her knick-knacks, all of which probably cost more than my car, it all made up a cozy, comfortable place to feel at-home in.
There were hints of her all around.
A collection of mismatched mugs, all of which with ducks on them. There were also at least half a dozen assorted to-go iced coffee mugs as well.
She had paperwork all over her coffee table; her laptop was sitting on her bed. Clear signs of a workaholic.
There were no signs of a man or a pet anywhere around.
And, fuck, did her place smell good.
Some kind of rich, spicy scent that matched the perfume bottle on her vanity. Like she maybe sprayed it on the curtains or carpets around the house. It was fucking hypnotic.
But aside from the little pieces of herself around, there was no evidence of what the woman herself looked like.
So I hadn’t been prepared for her when she’d walked in the door.
She was on the taller side with dark, nearly black hair that was pulled away from her soft, feminine face with high cheekbones, plump lips, and dark brown eyes.
And the body?
Even in plain lounge pants and a tank, she was sexy as fuck with her ample chest, her thick thighs, her ass, and her belly.
I liked all sorts of women. But I always had a fondness for softer-built women.
And Miranda Coulter was definitely on the softer side from what I could tell.