I didn’t know Neil was interested in horses. Or maybe he isn’t, but this is just something rich guys have.

Like I’d know the difference.

The room is so big that I don’t notice the grand piano in the corner until after I make a complete circuit. There’s also a formal dining table and six chairs.

Does Neil throw dinner parties? I can’t quite picture it.

Things get a little homier in the enormous kitchen. It’s fancy, but more inviting, with a table for three by the window, and a couple of nice stools at the counter. There’s a gleaming metal coffee machine and a six-burner stove in stainless steel. The backsplash is laid with shiny mosaic tiles, and the countertops are concrete.

The style is what I’d call “posh industrial.” I dig it. There’s even a metal circular staircase in the corner that leads upward. Toward the roof, I suppose?

I don’t climb up there to snoop, because getting trapped on the roof of a strange building is the only way this day could get worse.

I wander the rest of the apartment, passing an elegant half bathroom, where a rolled-up fluffy towel waits on the marble counter. I open a door, expecting a bedroom, but find a giant walk-in closet.

True fact? Neil’s closet is nearly as large as the bedroom in my shithole apartment.

After exiting the closet, there’s only one doorway left, so I head through it. And wow. Neil’s bedroom is the nicest room of all. It’s enormous, for starters, with a bed the size of a city block. The pretty views of Brooklyn are back, and on the wall opposite the bed hangs a nice but not outrageously large television.

This is also the only room in the place with hints of life. There’s a Men’s Health magazine on the bedside table. I can picture Neil reclining against the padded headboard, thumbing through that magazine, comparing the fitness gurus’ sixpacks with his own perfectly sculpted, lickable—

Okay, nope. I am not picturing Neil Drake naked. That is a bad idea. I’m ashamed to say that even before last night, I’d often wondered what Neil Drake looked like naked.

And now that I know, I wish I didn’t. Because he was a truly breathtaking sight.

With a shuddery breath, I poke my head into the en suite bathroom. It’s ludicrously large, with a fancy walk-in shower and a deep, triangular tub—the kind you see in movies about billionaires.

So the bathtub is on-brand.

Although I suppose Neil could live in a three-bedroom apartment with a home gym and—heck—something bonkers like a bowling alley or a movie theater.

But nope. He lives in the nicest one-bedroom apartment I’ve ever seen.

On my way out of the bedroom suite, I take one more glance at the bed. The sheets look crisp and smooth. And as I pass by, it occurs to me that—at least for the next couple of hours—I’m actually Neil’s legally wedded wi—

Nope. I can’t even think that word, let alone say it.