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I think I see Milo grimace, and I wonder how firm Sam’s grip is.
“It’s nice to formally meet you. I’m Milo Ambrose.” The chef recovers quickly, walking back to the island and dicing vegetables again.
Maybe he’s used to moody, alpha-male athlete types. I don’t know that I’ll ever get used to the ever-changing moods of Mr. Anderson.
“I got the list of your food preferences, and I’m making enough meals for the entire week. What you don’t eat now, I’ll store in containers in the fridge or the freezer with instructions on reheating.”
“Sounds good,” Sam says, his gaze stuck on the canvas in front of me rather than the chef he’s speaking to. He walks into the living room and stops a few feet away from where I’m working. “What’s this?”
“Is it okay that I’m painting in here? I promise not to make a mess.”
I wonder if he’s mad that I’m invading his space. He sounds irritated. He looks like it, too, an angry god standing there in his predatory stance. I moved my easel into the living room while he was at practice this afternoon, so it’s not like I asked for permission. I might be staying here, but this is his place.
“The light was so good in this room that I couldn’t resist. But I can move everything back.”
Sam’s brow furrows. “You’ve been painting in your room?”
“Yeah,” I say, mixing white and blue paint together until I get the exact shade of gray that I’m looking for while I wait to see what he prefers me to do.
“There’s not enough room for your bedroom furniture and your art stuff in there.”
Sam’s never been in my room since I moved in, but it’s his apartment, so he knows the general square footage. What he doesn’t know is, my bedroom here is bigger than the one I had at Suki’s townhouse.
“I make it work.” I wave him off. This entire place is a luxury of space and amenities that I don’t take for granted. “I just saw that”—I point to the sky outside the apartment with my brush—“and I got inspired.”
“It’s fine,” he insists gruffly. “You can paint in here anytime you want. But your bedroom isn’t going to cut it. There’s not enough space for all this … stuff.”
His eyes linger on the curve of my shoulder as the wide-necked shirt I’m wearing slips down my upper arm.
“It’s an easel and canvas,” I say, drawing his eyes to my face.
“Huh?”
“This stuff … it’s called an easel, and this is a canvas.” I motion to the surface I’m painting on and the contraption holding it up.
“Whatever.”
I glance at him again. “I’m good, Sam, really. I have more room here than I had in other places where I lived. In fact, the size of my bedroom is huge. I appreciate it though.”
He says nothing as I study him for a moment.
“Bad day?” I ask, trying to uncover the reason for his grumpiness.
He shakes his head and turns away. “No, it’s been a good day. We had a great practice. The team has really been coming together lately.”
“The only new guy on the roster is you,” I remind him, trying to soften him up. “You must have something to do with the team gelling.”
He shrugs off the compliment the way he always seems to these days. It’s funny; my first impression of him was that he was an arrogant, young hothead. And he embodied those adjectives at times to a T. But if he was like that before, he’s changed now. He’s humbler. Quick to shrug off praise and shift it to someone else. He still exudes confidence, but in a less obnoxious way than I remember all those years ago.
Sam leans against the wall as Milo adds two steaks to a piping hot skillet. The meat sizzles when it hits the buttered surface, the fragrance filling the air.
“That smells incredible,” I praise him, shifting my attention to the chef.
Milo winks at me before adding sprigs of rosemary to the pan as he spoons melted butter over the filets. “It’ll taste even better.”
Sam is grimacing again as he runs a hand through his messy blond hair.
“What’s wrong with you?” I ask, my patience starting to run thin. “Why are you so grouchy today? You said you had a good practice …”
