“Physical. Facilities. Home?” The last part was more of a plea than a question. To my surprise, Sam nodded. “Home for a few hours, then a dinner meeting with the interior designer redoing the penthouse.” Fuck me. “Isn’t that a you thing and not a me thing?” I grumbled and checked in at the front desk. The receptionist directed us down a long hallway. “Usually,” Sam said, trailing behind me. “But I have to meet with a company that wants your pretty face on their products, and I think they need to add a few zeroes to the offer. Besides, you’re the one who said you wanted a place that was—how did
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