“Required residence in your penthouse?” I look up sharply. “That’s not happening.” “You’ll have your own room in the east wing of the penthouse level. Private bath, study area—” “Wait.” I set my glass down. “I don’t even know you, and you want me to live with you?” His eyebrows lift slightly. “Worried I snore?” “Worried you’re a serial killer with excellent taste in jewelry.” He laughs, a genuine sound that transforms his face. “If I were a serial killer, I’d have much better pickup lines than ‘Come live in my tower and make pretty things.’”
