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Even if my heart insists on racing anyway.
Troy’s keys jingle as they’re deposited to the kitchen island, and as I turn, he’s already slipping out of his jacket. I don’t think I’ve willed into existence the way his shirt clings to the caps of his shoulders, but I appreciate the view all the same. Come on, nervous system. Get with the program.
“Nothing?” He takes a few steps closer, dropping the tailored jacket to one of a pair of Hans Wegner elbow chairs. Genuine. I’d checked the label.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I asked how you’re doing.”
“I’m drinking!” I say, lifting the oversize glass I have hugged to my chest.
“Right.”
“I didn’t think you’d mind, especially as I live here now.” Wild. Just wild. Unbelievable, actually.
“I don’t know where you got that from, but no, I don’t mind. And yes, you do live here.” Indulgent and amused. Hmm.
“It was in your regifting cupboard.” His brow flickers. “With a stash of chocolates.” At this, he pulls a face. I clap my hand to my mouth as I giggle. How did I forget this about him? He despises chocolate. I should remember that when I’m feeling like the weird one.
“From the Realtor and stuff. But, yeah, let’s make that the regifting cupboard.” He turns without appreciating what he’s said. Let’s, as though we’re in this together for realsies. “You hungry?”
“About that, I was meaning to ask,” I say, standing by the fridge, which took me an age to find earlier. Thanks, swanky cabinetry. “Were you bitten by a vampire recently?”
“Not so I noticed.”
“So you just don’t . . . eat? Fresh produce. Meats, cheese, and stuff. Or maybe your fridge is on a cleanse?”
“I haven’t been around much,” he says, pulling out a can of water. He cracks it open, and even from across the room I can see the strong muscles in his neck move with each swallow.
“You should get a filter,” I say, spinning away. I should get a flippin’ filter. Or a little duct tape. “It would be more environmentally friendly than a million cans. Nice view, by the way,” I say, changing the subject. Mainly because I have no idea if water filters or cans have the lesser environmental impact.
“It is when it’s daylight.” I pretend not to hear his amusement. “Shall I order something in?”
“You know I already did. You can smell it.”
“Ethiopian, right?”
I nod. Mainly because I had no idea what time he’d be home—because a marriage of convenience is sometimes inconvenient—and I knew it would heat up okay.
I pull the take-out containers from the warmer and watch Troy try to find the flatware. Then watch his entertainment as I pull on a drawer and lift out napery.
“I didn’t know I had those.”
“This place does look like someone Marie Kondo’d it.” Other than the cereal cabinet. The man likes his cereal. Cheerios, Apple Jacks, Cap’n Crunch, Froot Loops, Lucky Charms. There was oddly no milk in the fridge, though. I guess Troy hasn’t reached the private-chef kind of existence yet. I’m sure it will come. Hopefully before the diabetes does.
We each take a seat at the kitchen island and pretend it’s normal that our elbows almost touch.
“You’re saying . . . what? The house needs a little personality?”
“I’m saying nothing of the kind.”
“Didn’t sound like that to me.” He splashes a little red into a glass before silently offering to top up mine.
“Two-glass limit.” I put my hand over my glass. “I almost opened the champagne. Not to celebrate or anything,” I add, quickly course correcting. “I’ve served plenty of the stuff to others, but it’s been a while for me.”
“Help yourself. I don’t much like wine.”
“You were more a beer kind of guy, as I recall.”
