"The redhead won't be mad?" Oops. Real smooth, Sophie. I chance a quick glance at him and see him smirk.
"No. She won't mind."
"She's not your girlfriend then?" Shut up, Sophie! Shut up, shut up, shut up!
"No, Sophie, she's not."
"Oh." I really do shut up then. So she's not his girlfriend, but he still rejected me.
We pass Rittenhouse Square Park on our left and then immediately turn into the parking garage of a high-rise. Luke pulls the car into a numbered space and I hop out as soon as the car is in park. I follow him into an elevator and watch him push the top button for the penthouse. He ignores me, pulling a phone from his pocket and flicking the screen with his thumb. I use the time to observe him. He's wearing gray slacks with a gray sweater. The sweater sleeves are still pushed up to his elbows. Polished black shoes and a chunky watch on his left wrist complete the ensemble.
He glances up and notices me eyeing him. I look away, embarrassed at being so obvious. Thirty-three floors in this building. The doors open onto a marble landing. I'm silent as Luke unlocks the door and ushers me inside. I follow him down a hallway covered in wide-plank dark hardwood. There's a large round entryway that appears to be the center of the condo. The space has one of those round tables in the middle complete with a vase of fresh flowers in the center. I can see a dining table straight ahead and hallways off the circular space to the left and right. Luke turns left and then right into the kitchen.
"Sit."
He doesn't indicate where, so I choose a seat at the island versus the table in front of the windows on the far side of the room. I glance around as he opens and closes cabinet doors. High-end stainless-steel appliances, professionally distressed white cabinets and Carrara marble countertops. It's a gorgeous kitchen. He can't possibly use it. A fact he confirms when he turns to me and asks if I want a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or Italian takeout from the place downstairs.
"Do you have milk?" I ask.
He does that little smirk-smile of his and nods. "I do."
"Peanut butter and jelly then," I say, getting up from my seat.
"Stay." He nods to my seat. "I've got it." He sets a tall glass of cold milk in front of me and slaps two slices of bread on the counter before slathering one side with peanut butter and the other with jelly. I watch him work, intrigued. From the little I've seen of this place, it's enormous. Does he live here alone? Do doctors make this kind of money? I don't think so.
"Do you own this place?"
"I do." He lifts an eyebrow.
"It seems really large for just you." I glance around. "And expensive."
He shrugs. "The top floor came with this much space. And I like to be on top"—he places my sandwich on a plate and slides it over to me—"Sophie."
Okay. That was a definite sexual innuendo. This guy is all over the place, or a tease.
His phone rings and he glances at it before answering with a terse, "Dr. Miller."
I take a bite and listen to his end of the conversation.
"I'll be there in twenty minutes." He finishes the call and places the cell back in his pocket. "I have to run to the hospital and check on a patient. Make yourself at home. There's a television in the family room." He points to a door on the left. "I should be back in a couple of hours."
"A couple of hours?" I ask, surprised. "Don't babies take longer than that?"
"I don't normally deliver the babies, Sophie." He walks around the granite island and pauses in front of me. "I hate to burst your gynecologist fetish bubble, but I'm a reproductive endocrinologist." He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and his fingers caress the edge.
I try not to react. Because I want to. I want to lean in and kiss his palm. I want to beg him to do so much more.
"My job is to get the patient pregnant, then I hand them off to an obstetrician."
"So you specialize in knocking women up?"
"Yeah. Rich women or women with great health insurance." He taps the tip of my nose. "Not college students."
"I'm not looking to get knocked up."
"Good. Now finish your sandwich and sober up so I can take you home."
His footsteps fade and the front door clicks shut.
I place my empty plate and glass in the dishwasher before walking into the adjoining family room with the television Luke mentioned. I look around. This place is decorated like an expensive model home. I don't see any indication that anyone really lives here. No magazines or stray mugs on the end tables. I'm not really interested in watching TV, I'm interested in a house tour.
Exiting the family room through a door that connects back to the hallway, I find a study. This room looks lived in. He spends time in here—I can smell his cologne lingering in the air. The walls are lined in books. Mainly medical, but there's a few crime mysteries too. Not a copy of Fifty Shades of Grey anywhere, sadly. There's a Mac set up on the desk and some stray pens and paperwork scattered across it.