Danielle Steel - The Apartment

They walked slowly back to the apartment, and Claire felt better than she had in months. She had a plan, and knew it was the right one. She made a list that night of the companies she wanted to approach. The future was looking brighter.

And Max showed up to spend the night as he had said. He and Morgan made love in the morning, because they’d both been too tired the night before, and Morgan was a few minutes late for work, but she had no meetings that morning. All she had was research and desk work until the afternoon. She was poring over several files on her computer, when George walked into her office, and she smiled up at him.

“Thanks for trying Max’s restaurant last night. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“I love it. I’ll be back. It’s great for a casual meal.” He had a legendarily beautiful penthouse in the Trump Tower uptown, but she knew he ate downtown often, and had friends in Tribeca and Soho, and he loved trying new restaurants. He loved to impress the women he went out with, with new finds. And his reputation as a generous date and man-about-town was well deserved. “I liked your friend,” he said simply. And for a moment, she thought he meant Max, but the look in his eye said something different. “She’s a very pretty girl.” That instantly corrected Morgan’s first impression. “Do you know her well?” He was curious about her. She looked like a model.

“Claire?” Morgan asked, still startled by the question. “We’ve been roommates for five years.”

“What does she do for a living?” He had never asked Morgan about any woman before, and she was surprised.

“She’s a shoe designer. We were talking about it last night. She’s very talented, but stuck in a boring job.”

“That doesn’t sound like much fun. Is she single?” Morgan knew that the question encompassed if she had a boyfriend.

“Yes. She works very hard, though, and doesn’t go out much. She’s very intense about her career.”

“So am I,” he said with a broad grin. “I still make time for dinner. Who does she work for?” He was being very direct.

“Arthur Adams,” Morgan said in a small voice. She didn’t know if Claire was up to dating a man like George, or if she’d even want to. She felt uncomfortable answering his questions, but Claire could take care of herself, and a moment later he left her office.

Three dozen white roses arrived on Claire’s desk that afternoon, in a tall vase, with a card that said, “It was wonderful to meet you. George.” She was floored. No man had ever sent her flowers like that before. They were exquisite, and very lavish, from the best florist in town.

“Who died?” Walter said tersely when he walked into Claire’s office later that afternoon to discuss some price points. She had suggested an increase in their prices, and he didn’t agree, as usual.

“They’re from a friend,” she answered vaguely, looking embarrassed by the enormous bouquet.

“He must be crazy about you,” Walter said through pursed lips. “You should get things like that at home.” She nodded, and didn’t know what to say, but once he left her office, she stared at them, wondering why George had sent them. She knew the names of the women he went out with. She was nowhere in their league, and it felt strange to be the object of his attentions. She almost called Morgan to tell her about it, but decided not to. It didn’t mean anything. He was just a rich, successful guy playing a game, and she had no intention of playing it with him. But the flowers were beautiful. She sent him a short, polite e-mail to thank him, and went home at the end of the day. She had convinced herself by then that she would never hear from him again. And she didn’t really want to. George Lewis’s world was light-years away from hers. And she intended to keep it that way. She never said a word about the roses to Morgan.

—

The day after he sent the roses, George sent Claire a beautiful coffee table book about the history of shoes. It was a thoughtful gift, and she was touched, but uneasy too. He was obviously trying to woo her, although he hadn’t called and asked her out, but she was afraid he would. She had no idea how to deal with someone like him. He was so totally out of her league. She was hoping he’d lose interest in her before he called her or sent any more gifts. And she still hadn’t said anything to Morgan about him, nor had she mentioned him to the others. He was rapidly becoming a dark secret.

Claire had sent out several e-mails that week, with her résumé, to her favorite shoe companies. Two of them had written back to tell her they had no positions open, and three more hadn’t responded. She hoped they would, but at least she was trying. Walter was annoying her more than ever, and being constantly critical, and in her face.

George was the bright spot in her life at the moment, although his attention made her nervous. He was just a player flirting with her, she was sure, and she reminded herself to keep her eye on the ball, which was her job. But the roses and the book kept distracting her. He was a hard man to ignore.

As it turned out, Sasha was on call at the hospital all Saturday afternoon. They called her in at one o’clock, and she did three deliveries back to back, dashing from one to the other, but all of them were simple and went smoothly. And she finished just before seven. She and Alex were supposed to have dinner at seven-thirty, and she had no time to go home and change.

She called Alex from the hospital, and was going to offer to postpone the date if he wanted to, since even if she went out to dinner, she might get called back again, although he had known she would be on call that night and said he didn’t mind and would take his chances.

“You get your wish,” she said to him when he answered. “I’m in scrubs and Crocs. I’ve been in L and D all day, and I just finished three deliveries. And it’s kind of late to go home and dress. What do you want to do? Do it another time?”

“Have you eaten?” he asked her simply.

“Not since breakfast, and two PowerBars between deliveries.”

“Perfect. I’m starving. I’ll pick you up at the ER in ten minutes. Are you done for now?”

“Yes, until they call me back in the middle of dinner.” She was smiling, he was so reasonable and easy to talk to. Men always made a big deal of it when she had to cancel or change plans. But he lived the same life she did, and the women he dated hadn’t liked it either.

“Fine. I’ll wear my scrubs if it makes you feel better. We can play doctor.” And then they both started laughing. “Sorry, that didn’t come out the way I meant it. Or maybe it did,” he teased her. “Do you like sushi?”

“I love it.”

“There’s a great place down the street. The food is good, the service is fast. If you get called in, you’ll at least have eaten. See you in five minutes.”

He was waiting for her outside the emergency room, in jeans and a clean, neatly pressed starched blue shirt and loafers, which looked like formal wear to her. She was wearing her hospital garb, and he told her she looked lovely, and meant it. And they walked down the street in the warm September evening. It was nice to get out of the hospital and felt like a vacation day to her, just being with him, talking about things other than work. And he was right, the food at the restaurant he’d chosen was delicious, and they served it quickly. They sat relaxing afterward, talking about skiing and sailing and their favorite books. They liked some of the same authors, and confessed with some embarrassment that both of them had been good students.

“So what’s your idea of the perfect date?” he asked her, still wanting to know more about her.