Penthouse Prince(2)
I drain the last of my Scotch and stand, tossing a couple of bills onto the table to cover the cost of my drink. “As much as I’ve enjoyed your running commentary on my love life, hair and fashion choices, I need to get home and relieve the sitter. ’Night, boys. Lesley.” I tip my chin toward her.
She smiles at me. “Don’t listen to these idiots, Lexington. Any woman alive would be lucky to have you—and the beautiful little angel waiting for you at home.”
I chuckle. “Thanks. But she’d better not be waiting up for me at home. If I have to read that Happy Sunshine Bear book one more time, I’m going to throw myself out the fucking window.”
To a chorus of laughter, I head off into the night.
? ? ?
“Daddy! I’m awaaaaake!” my daughter hollers from her perch atop my stomach.
I jolt and crack my eyes open, looking first at her grinning face, then at the clock. “Grier, it’s five thirty.” Admittedly, my alarm will go off in only half an hour, but I was up later than usual last night, and I cherish every second of sleep I can get.
She bounces, forcing an oof from me. “Hungwy.”
I guess I’m going to have to start getting used to the fact I now have a toddler and not a baby anymore. Ever since I moved her from a crib to a toddler bed, she’s been getting up earlier and earlier, and her morning greetings are not only becoming earlier but also louder.
“Okay, baby girl, let’s get up and make some breakfast.” I set her down on the floor so I can climb out of bed.
I change her diaper, pour her a sippy cup of milk, and cut up half a banana to tide her over until I can cook her favorite breakfast; eggs. With Grier focused on her favorite cartoons, I check my phone quickly. Seven voice mails, ten texts, and almost thirty new emails. How the hell did so much happen before the sun even rose? But when you own as many properties as I do, it’s to be expected.
I tackle the easiest texts and emails while brushing my teeth and shaving, then take a lightning-fast shower while praying Grier doesn’t do anything crazy until I can get my eyes back on her. When I emerge from dressing for work, she’s careening around the living room, and I notice she’s eaten only two banana slices. But nothing seems broken, and I can’t bring myself to get into a battle of wills right now.
I put the earliest voice mail on speaker and listen while cracking and whisking eggs. It’s the superintendent of my Central Park property, asking me to talk to the AC repairman I contracted last week. I call them, bending my neck awkwardly to keep my phone to my ear while I stir the panful of scrambled eggs.
“Hearthside HVAC, Doug speaking. How may I help you?”
“Good morning. This is Lex Dane, of Dane Properties. Betty said you had some questions you needed me to answer?”
“Okay, let me see here . . .” There’s a rustle of paper in the background. “Have you worked with us before?”
“Yes, many times.”
“What type of repair did you need?”
Frustration rips through me and I exhale out a breath. “I explained the problem when I emailed you last week. The central air isn’t working, and I need a diagnosis.”
“Sorry, but I’m not seeing any record of that conversation. Who did you talk to?”
I rummage through my memory and come up with nothing but a jumbled mess. It’s way too early, I’m uncaffeinated, and I’ve had about a thousand similar conversations this month.
“Whoever responded to my email inquiry. I don’t remember his name off the top of my head. It started with F, I think.”
“Felix? He’s off today.”
Of course he is. “Look, I need someone sent out ASAP. I was told this would be dealt with within twenty-four hours, and it’s now been almost three days.”
“There’s no need to get upset, sir.”
My barely restrained temper flares. “I strongly disagree. I have a building full of tenants without air-conditioning, in June, and your company can’t get its shi—” I catch Grier staring at me with huge, fascinated eyes. “Uh, stuff together. Now, will you be over there by the end of the day, or should I find another contractor?”
A long pause. “I’ll send someone.”
“Thank you,” I reply icily, then stab at the END CALL icon.
For Christ’s sake. Can this guy wipe his own ass, or does he need me to help him with that too? The only person who enjoys that privilege is my two-year-old daughter . . . whose hand is currently, oh my fucking God, about half an inch from the glowing red burner on the stove.
My heart kicks into overdrive, and I yank her back. “No!”
Grier’s face crumples, her bottom lip drops, and she howls in outrage.
“We’ve talked about this, baby girl. The stove is for grownups. It’s dangerous, way too hot. You’d get a big, big owie.”
Still screaming bloody murder, she shakes her tiny fists at me. “Bad Daddy!”
“I just want you to be safe, sweetheart.” I glance back to discover that she’s somehow outwitted her spill-proof sippy cup and dumped milk all over the table.
Shit. We have less than an hour before I need to drop her off at day care on my way to work, and she’s still unfed, wearing pajamas, and now too pissed off to let me rectify any of those problems. And what the hell is that smell?