But that was in the past. And today was all about her future, as well as that of the baby, the two of them on their own. “It is. I love it. I absolutely love it. Which is why I’m going to sell my units before you do. I simply care more.” She reached for the door handle.
“Are you challenging me to a race?”
“No,” she scoffed, even though she knew very well that she would take extreme glee in selling her apartments before him. She might be forced to take out a full-page ad in the New York Times, or at least go to his office, blow raspberries at him and say, “I told you so” a few hundred times. “I’m a grown-up. I’m not racing you.”
“Right. I mean, how would we even decide what the prize is?” He bounced his eyebrows at her, his voice so low and husky that she worried she might pass out and knock her head into the dashboard.
“You do your thing. I’ll do mine.”
“Or I can just tell myself it’s a race. To stay motivated.”
“What? You can’t do that. You need someone else to race you. I refuse to be that person.” Except I already am that person.
“I’m pretty sure I can do whatever I want.”
“You’re being ridiculous.” It would be just like him to do this. The doorman appeared and opened Charlotte’s car door. “I’m going now.”
“You’re welcome for the ride, neighbor. Oh, and by the way, we’re totally having a race.”
Fine. I’ll just have to figure out a way to beat your sorry butt.
Charlotte stood inside the doorway of her brand-new luxury Grand Legacy apartment, mesmerized by muscles.
“Ma’am, where do you want this?” Chad, the head of the moving crew she’d hired, blew his sandy blond surfer-dude bangs from his forehead. His lightly tanned brow glistened with sweat. His biceps bulged through his black T-shirt, which was emblazoned with his company’s name: Hunks with Trucks.
Charlotte felt giddy. This was the most fun she’d had in months. “In the bedroom, Chad. Thank you. And please, call me Charlotte.” Her voice was high and girlie and exploding with flirtation, and she didn’t care in the least how goofy it might make her seem.
“Of course. Charlotte.” He smiled and winked at the same time, a talent Charlotte did not possess. Chad was getting a really good tip at the end of the day. As was Marco, the tall one with the megawatt smile, Phil, the one with the nerdy glasses whose side job was as a runway model, and James, the brooding serious one with the mysterious tattoo snaking up his arm.
“I can’t believe you hired this moving company,” Fran said under her breath when Chad was out of view. “But I’m not sorry you did.”
“I figure we’re entitled to a little fun. Plus, I hate moving.” Charlotte had moved thirteen times, more than once a year since she’d moved out of the house at eighteen. That was when her dad had announced that he couldn’t “deal” with her anymore—too much sneaking out of the house, and doing things that were unbecoming of a Locke, mostly staying out late and dancing. There was always a lot of dancing.
Charlotte’s brothers had done some of the same things, and although their carousing was never on a par with Charlotte’s, they were also never reprimanded for it. She despised the double standard and had been glad to go out on her own. She started her party-planning business the next day, and kept at it during her first two years of college, until she eventually flunked out of school and shifted gears out of boredom, the next phase being interior design. “And they’re doing a great job.” The bonus of hiring Hunks with Trucks was that as a pregnant single woman, these guys might be the only primo male physiques she’d see up close for the foreseeable future.
Fran consulted her watch. “They got here pretty late, though. Aren’t you supposed to be done using the freight elevator at two? It’s nearly two thirty.” She pushed up the sleeves of her pale pink long-sleeved T-shirt. Even helping Charlotte move, Fran was dressed impeccably, like a modern-day Jackie O in slim black capris, flats and pearl earrings.
Charlotte had gone for yoga pants, a camisole and a slouchy T-shirt over that. Her hair had gotten dry shampoo that morning and was pulled back in a ponytail, but she had gone to the trouble of putting on makeup. She was spending part of her day with Hunks with Trucks, after all. She wanted to look good. “I think there are only a few more things for them to bring up.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Chad said from behind her. “One or two more trips and we’ll be out of your hair. The guys are bringing the bigger pieces of furniture up now.”
Thor whimpered from his kennel, which had been put in the quietest corner of the living room. Charlotte rushed over to him and poked her fingers between the metal bars. Thor licked her mercilessly with his tiny pink tongue. He wagged his tail so violently that the crate shook. “Sorry, buddy. Just a little longer and I can spring you from jail. I can’t let you out when the door’s open. I know you and you’ll run away.” Charlotte turned to Fran. “Let’s start getting the plates and glasses unpacked. I have to have something to eat on.”
The two made their way to the kitchen, which was over-the-top considering Charlotte’s lack of culinary skills, but she loved it nonetheless. Classic white cabinets, white marble countertops, gleaming chrome fixtures and stainless steel appliances, including a six-burner range with a massive hood. She even had a center island, which was practically unheard of in Manhattan, but Sawyer’s architect had done an excellent job with maximizing space. Charlotte also had a huge soaking tub in her bathroom, another NYC anomaly, something she was definitely going to break in before the end of the night. The apartments were a new addition to the hotel, as these top floors had been only guest rooms in the hotel’s earlier incarnation. It had been Sawyer’s idea to bring a residential feel to the building, and Charlotte had to admire her brother’s devotion to both carefully restoring the building and not being afraid to try something new. Plus, it meant a business opportunity had fallen into her lap and she was immensely thankful for that.
“I have my first showing on Monday morning,” Charlotte said, cutting the packing tape on one of the boxes labeled Glassware. “An old party-planning client. She’s newly divorced and got a huge settlement. She wants to move into the city from New Jersey.”
“Sounds promising.” Fran began helping Charlotte unwrap the paper around the glasses. “Remind me. How many units do you have to sell?”
“Seven, now that I’ve bought one. It doesn’t sound like a lot, but it’ll be a big deal. There’s so much competition out there and you have to find the right buyer.”
“A person with deep pockets.”
“Who also likes the idea of living in a hotel. Sawyer was very specific. He wants resident buyers. He doesn’t want absentee owners, so it’s a little trickier than simply selling them to anyone with money.”
“Well, you could sell it as almost like being in a small building. With only four floors, the residential space is relatively small, and access is closed off from the hotel. That could appeal to buyers.”
“Of course, you’re sharing the elevators with hundreds of hotel guests.”
“You don’t have to remind anyone of that. You have a fantastic restaurant downstairs and there will be two bars to choose from once The Cellar is open. You don’t get that in most apartment buildings.”
“True.”