Spellbound - Cara Lynn Shultz [68]
I heard a buzzing sound, and realized he had unlocked the gate. I pushed it open, and the heaviness of the gate brought me back to my horrific dream, reminding me of how I struggled to open the door to the garden. My stomach began churning.
I was going to Brendan’s house, and we were going to be alone. Just me, Brendan and the knowledge that he was most likely my soul mate. Come to think of it, it was going to get awfully crowded in there.
I was still walking up the steps when Brendan pulled open the heavy front door, dressed casually in jeans, socks and a black hoodie, worn open over a white T-shirt. I, on the other hand, had opted for gray corduroys, a scoop-neck black shirt and my fiercest heeled boots.
“Hey, Emma,” he said, snaking one arm around me while he held the door open with the other. Still keeping a tight hold on me, Brendan whirled me around and kicked the door shut. Any anxiety I felt melted away the instant he pressed his lips to mine for a sweet, short kiss.
“You didn’t run here from your aunt’s house, did you?” Brendan smiled, breaking away from the kiss to help me out of my worn wool jacket, which he hung up on an antique-looking rack in the foyer.
“No, I took the subway,” I mumbled, leaving out the part about how I got off on the wrong stop.
Brendan paused, looking down at my high shoes. “Not that I don’t appreciate the look, but my mom has this stupid ‘no shoes in the house’ rule. Do you mind?”
“Nope,” I replied, bracing myself against his shoulder as I used the tip of my right boot to pry the left one off. I was happy to remove them—they were already pinching—and happier still that I’d opted to wear cute polka-dotted socks.
Brendan grabbed my hand and offered to give me the grand tour. And holy crap, it was grand! He led me past a formal living room, decorated with jewel-toned, brocade-covered couches, to a cherry wood staircase. The stairs terminated in an impressively modern kitchen. It looked like it didn’t belong in the same house as the old-fashioned room downstairs—let alone the same century. The kitchen resembled something from a Martha Stewart set. Airy and impeccably decorated, a double-door, stainless-steel fridge was the centerpiece. Brendan stopped at the fridge, rooting around in there while I surveyed the room. A white ceramic bowl filed with oranges sat on the stainless steel countertop and orange linen curtains hung in the nearby window. There was a modern-looking white table to the left, surrounded by citrus-colored chairs, and I realized the bowl of oranges was merely decorative. Who knew there was such a thing as fashionable fruit? Were bananas passé this season?
“This is your favorite, right?” Brendan asked, handing me a lemonade iced tea.
“Yeah, I love it. You too?” I asked. As I took the bottle from him, I noticed a case of the stuff chilling in the fridge.
“Nah, but I asked Dina to pick some up for you,” he said, grabbing a Pepsi for himself.
“Dina? Is that your sister?”
“No, she’s our housekeeper,” he said nonchalantly. “Want to see the other living room?”
I nodded numbly, letting Brendan lead me into a large room behind the kitchen. Housekeepers? Four-story mansions in Manhattan? The other living room? Why would you even need a spare living room? If the first one is unable to fulfill its living room duties, the runner-up gets to step in?
But when I stepped into the spare living room, I realized that this “other” living room would be the centerpiece in anyone else’s home. There was a giant TV and a complicated-looking stereo protected by a glass cabinet—which looked like it held nearly every movie and video game ever made. My toes sank into the thick, plush burgundy carpet. The room opened out into a balcony, which overlooked a meticulously cared-for garden.
I took a sharp breath, turning over in my mind the fact that this was, without a doubt, the most expensive home I’d ever been in. Or heard about. Or seen on television.
“Prominent” was the understatement of the