Chapter 1: Meeting the Ormondes

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Three years later

This was the nicest apartment Goldie had ever seen. It had definitely begun its architectural life as a warehouse of some sort, judging by all of the scarred, exposed brick and twenty foot ceilings. Pipes that were no longer connected to anything ran across the walls and huge vents that were closed and had been painted over were recessed in the roof. Staircases ran up two of the walls, leading to an open second level, where a hallway connected to what must be bedrooms and more bathrooms, and a shining kitchen gleamed at the back of the main space. There was an absolutely enormous painting of the Brooklyn bridge over the fireplace. Floor to ceiling windows gave spectacular views of Soho and the Financial District.

So this was what life on the top floor looked like.

The man facing her looked very nice also, very top floor, though his face looked haggard. His brown eyes looked a little sunken in his face, and his brown hair, which was kind of long and hung in loose curls, looked like it could use a wash. And it was obvious from the scruff on his face that he hadn't picked up a razor in a couple of days. He was quite tall, over six feet for sure, and though he was quite lean, he obviously saw the inside of a gym on a regular basis. Broad shoulders in a pink polo tapered to lean hips and long legs, which were today clad in ripped up skinny jeans.

If Jeff Ormonde weren't famous and Goldie didn't already know what he looked like, she might have just assumed that this was normal for him, that he always looked like the lead singer of a grunge band; however, he was famous, and she did know what he looked like. He'd been one of the most successful musicians in the world for the last ten years, with one of the most recognizable faces anywhere, so Goldie knew exactly what he looked like; he was known for his chiseled jaw and dreamy, clean-cut good looks, nothing like the disheveled mess she saw in front of her.

Everyone said he'd taken the death of his girlfriend very hard.

It must be true, then.

And of course the reason she was here, also. She couldn't imagine how he'd been coping these last few months, taking care of three babies under the age of one on his own.

"Hello," she began, holding her hand out. "I'm Goldie Sorensen. The agency sent me?"

"Yes, of course," he responded, holding his own hand out to clasp hers. "Thank you for being on time."

It felt a little strange to Goldie to hear such a famous voice in person, but she tried to put that out of her mind. She wasn't here to fangirl over the man.

"I always try to be punctual," she answered with a smile. "Of course, in New York, you're kind of dependent on public transit, but I try to take that into account."
"And if all goes well, it won't be an issue after today, will it?" he responded. "I mean, you'll be living here?"

"Right," she responded. She looked around as he led her to the sofa and gestured for her to sit.

"I was hoping to meet the babies," she mentioned.

"Incredibly, they're all asleep," he explained. "Though I suppose I shouldn't really say 'incredibly,' as they were up until all hours crying, so they were exhausted this morning."

"Oh no," Goldie said, making a face of sympathy. "I hope they're okay?"

Jeff sighed. "Honestly, who the fuck knows?" His English accent became very clipped as he shrugged. "They can't talk, they can't tell me if anything hurts, they just—cry." He looked at Goldie out of bloodshot eyes. "Sometimes I think they must miss their mum."

Goldie was silent, not knowing what to say.

"So, your first name is Goldie? But your last name is Sorensen?" Jeff went on into the uncomfortable silence. "I always thought 'Goldie' was a Jewish name, but Sorensen isn't, is it? May I ask if you're married?"

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