Page 36 of VOGUEish

“Why there?”

“The music is loud enough to drown out awkward silence, but not so noisy you can’t carry on a conversation if the mood strikes.”

He battled an urge to ask her about the last guy she’d taken there. “Do you like living in a warehouse?” The building she lived in was one of several just like it on the block. Some showed signs of renovations, others total abandonment, hers leaning heavily toward the latter. The exposed red-brick exterior could use some immediate attention.

“Love it.” She turned and gave him a naughty smile. Or maybe it was a perfectly normal smile his dick misinterpreted. No matter the intent, her smile had him imagining things. “Don’t worry. The inside’s been refurbished. It’s no longer vagrant occupied.”

“Vagrants used to live in your place?” He squeezed the back of his neck and took a deep breath.

She nodded.

He swallowed. “Interesting.”

“And here we are, back at my place.”

Illuminated by the moonlight, she removed her keys and used them on three locks. Then she opened the door and motioned for him to walk inside.

“May I ask you a personal question?” he asked.

“You can. I just don’t promise to answer it.”

“Fair enough.” He turned to look at her. “What did you mean when you said your mom was fragile?”

Her smile withered. “I don’t recall ever telling you that.”

He instantly regretted asking. “You mentioned it the night of your prom.”

“Oh.” Her hand fluttered to her throat. “I’m surprised you remembered.”

“You know what…never mind. It’s none of my business.”

She lifted a shoulder in a delicate shrug. “Mom suffers from severe depression. When she’s left on her own for too long, the darkness settles.” She fussed with the indoor locks as she spoke.

“Darkness?” He spoke quietly.

“As in suicidal thoughts.” The words came brisk with no intonation.

His gut tightened. This wasn’t a light conversation between two people intent on remaining distant acquaintances. Then again, it was a topic he could relate to. “How long has your mother battled depression?”

Isabella wrapped her arms around her middle. “Since the birth of moi.”

The way she said moi, it was obvious she blamed herself. The knowledge caused him to ache for young Isabella. The one who wouldn’t let him call her parents because her mom was fragile. “I’m sorry.”

She inhaled and shook her hands out at her sides. “Don’t be. You didn’t do anything. Are you ready for the grand tour?”

He’d often shut down conversations about his own parents in just such an abrupt manner, so he got it. Topic off limits. “I am.”

She dropped their coats on an oversized purple couch. “The ceilings are eighteen feet, the windows, ten feet.” She rattled off the measurements in an animated tour guide voice. It was like she’d learned to compartmentalize her emotions. One minute you’re talking about your suicidal mom, the next you’re making a new friend.

Who had taught her how to place her emotions in a drawer?

Taking a page from her, he shoved his deeper thoughts away and instead focused on his non-date. He had to admit the place was a hell of a lot more charming on the inside. Original hardwood floors, plus more exposed brick. The décor…offbeat.

He didn’t know if he loved or abhorred the colorful, mismatched furniture she and her roommate had accumulated. Or the curtains that looked like patchwork quilts. “Did the place come furnished?”

She shook her head. “It’s a hodgepodge of my and Chloe’s personalities. For example, that couch used to belong to Prince. I adore Prince. The curtains were made by Dolly Parton. Chloe adores all things country music. The rug is one we both agreed on. Can you believe it was once a gift to Elton John from Lady Gaga?”

He raised an eyebrow. Was she pulling his leg? “How did you manage to get your hands on so many history-enriched pieces?”

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