I already knew I wouldn’t like her apartment—not because she didn’t know how to decorate, because the small one-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn was cozy and somehow oozed Kathleen Denver—but because it wasn’t mine. It wasn’t my penthouse. It wasn’t the mansion I had envisioned for us. It wasn’t the castle she deserved.
“It’s cozy,” I said, unbuttoning my suit jacket again, my eyes scanning the space.
The living room was warm and inviting, though small. A big couch, possibly the most comfortable-looking thing I had ever seen, sat in the middle of the room, accompanied by an even larger recliner that faced the TV. The lighting was soft, casting a golden glow over the walls, which were painted a deep, calming shade. There was something undeniably her about this space—something effortless, lik
