Page 146 of Our Chaotic Love Affair

“Is it though?” She ran her hand along the marble-topped console table. “Okay, tour me. I want to see everything.”

I took her hand and led her through the main floor. “Living room,” I said, gesturing to the open space with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. “Dining room. Kitchen.”

The kitchen was all gleaming stainless steel and white marble, designed by some famous chef whose name I couldn’t remember. I barely used it. Most of my meals were takeout or business dinners. But today it had been my workshop. Today I used appliances I didn’t even know I had.

“This is a kitchen designed for someone who actually cooks,” Cleo said, running her hand over the massive island. “Do you actually cook?”

“Sometimes,” I admitted. “Not often enough to justify all this.”

“But you cooked today.”

“I did.”

She smiled, and something in my chest expanded. “For me.”

“For you,” I confirmed.

She leaned up and kissed me, just a quick brush of lips. “Show me more.”

We continued through the first floor. The media room I rarely used, the office where I spent most of my time, the guest suite that had never hosted a guest.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, “but it doesn’t feel lived in.”

“I’m not here much.”

“Even when you are here, I bet you’re working.”

She had me there.

“Come on,” I said, leading her to the staircase. “Second floor.”

The stairs curved up to the private areas. My bedroom, the master bath, a second office, and the rooms I’d never found a purpose for.

“More offices?” she teased as we reached the top.

I guided her down the hallway. “Guest rooms. Three of them.”

She peeked into each one, all perfectly decorated, all completely impersonal. Like hotel rooms waiting for occupants who never arrived.

“Do your brothers stay here?”

“They all have their own places.” I shrugged. “I don’t really have guests.”

We walked back downstairs. She paused to look at the table I had set.

“Perfect.” She turned to look at me, eyes shining. “You did all this?”

“I wanted to.” I pulled out her chair. “Sit. I’ll get the food.”

I served us both, trying not to look nervous as she took her first bite. I’d followed the recipe exactly. Timed everything. Tasted as I went.

But cooking for someone you loved was different than cooking for yourself.

“This is incredible,” she said. “Like, restaurant quality incredible.”

Relief flooded through me. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. When did you learn to cook like this?”