“You are unbelievable. Do you know that?” He revved up the car and sped away. “Do you get a cheap thrill out of testing my nerves?”
“It’s more of an adrenaline rush. I wasn’t joking about the reading...I actually am a full day behind.”
“Would you like me to make Monday a company-wide off day so you can catch up?”
“What?”
“I didn’t stutter. If you need me to do that I will, because I can guarantee you won’t be getting any reading done tonight.”
My cheeks turned bright red. “Did you not hear me say that I don’t feel like having sex with you tonight? Did you catch that sentence at all?”
“I’m allergic to your lies, Claire.” He looked over at me and smiled. “Your poker face doesn’t work on me anymore.”
I sat back in the seat and looked out the window, laughing on the inside.
I watched as the bright skyline of downtown disappeared in my side mirror, as the street lights that hovered over the lanes became less frequent.
I could see that we were driving past property estates—mansion like houses with sprawling lawns and mile long gates, houses that were standing further and further apart.
Jonathan began to slow his car down, pulling up to a colossal black gate. He rolled his window down and punched in a code, causing the gate to slowly slide open.
He drove down a long gravel road that was lined with bright yellow gingko trees. There was a small courtyard in the distance and a gray stoned fountain stood stoic amidst a large bed of well-trimmed grass.
I kept my eyes forward, thinking that whatever his house looked like, it couldn’t be grander than any of the yachts he’d shown me. But once the house came into view, I had to hold back a gasp.
It was unbelievably beautiful. Stunning. An architect’s dream.
It was a colonial style mansion with white stones that gleamed against the sunset. It had to have been built in the 1930s—the marbled pillars that led into the entrance were reminiscent of the ones I’d seen in my history design books.
The arched windows—there were far too many to count, were at least eight feet tall and the glass within them was tinted black.
“Claire?” Jonathan was standing at my door with his arm outstretched. “Would you like to come inside?”
I stepped out of the car and followed him up the smooth slate steps and past the vintage front door.
The inside of the house was a stark contrast to the outside. While a few remnants of the colonial style had been saved, most of the house had been completely modernized: There were walls constructed completely from glass and free-standing spiral staircases. There were also high vaulted ceilings and recessed lighting.
Why does he need all this space?
He stopped walking once we arrived in what appeared to be an old parlor room. He pulled out a chair for me and walked behind the enormous bar.
I looked all around me, admiring the original artwork that hung in sparkling silver frames. “Will you give me a tour of everything before we leave?”
“Of course.” He opened a cabinet. “I can show you around the whole place tomorrow.”
“Do you really need more than one house in the same city? Why can’t you just stay in this one? It’s more than big enough...”
“I see my properties as investments.” He uncorked a bottle of wine. “This house isn’t really a home right now. It’s considered to be a landmark.”
“Why?”
“It once belonged to Charles Ellis, the other designer of the Golden Gate Bridge. He built this house to show off how innovative he could be, how far he could push structural design in the 1930s. Apparently he was spending too much time on it, so they put him off the bridge project before it was completed.”
“He never got credit for helping?”
“Not until 2007,” he said as he handed me a glass. “He’d been dead for decades by then though.”
“How sad...What made you buy it?”
“I was looking for an estate to invest in years ago, and it caught my attention as soon as I drove by. It reminded of a house in a book I read once. It’s a classic, but I can’t remember the name of it for the life of me right now...”
“What’s the book about?”
“Are you going to try and guess the title?” He smiled. “Are you that good with books?”
“Maybe...”
“1920s. Jazz Age. Wealthy guy who loves to throw lavish parties. Townspeople have no idea how he acquired his wealth and he’s in love with—”
“The Great Gatsby?”
He nodded and took a sip of his wine. “I’m impressed.”
“This house doesn’t really feel like single person space. It seems like it’d be more fitting for a family.”
“I can see that. Maybe someday I’ll have one here...”
I stilled.
It was moments like this that the insecurities I’d managed to bury crawled out of the ground and laughed in my face. I knew damn well that this fling wouldn’t last forever, that we weren’t meant to be together, but there were small instances that made those facts more apparent, more glaring.