Page 61 of Bone Dust

“You’re reading my mind.” I cross my arms over my chest and take a step or two toward him. “The floors are beautiful.” I glance down then up, meeting his eyes. “Sorry if I scratched them.”

He shrugs, moving past a pair of open windows dressed in plain, straight curtains in the same hue and texture as the pillows.

“I’m sure they’re fine. A few dings will add character.” He goes to a cupboard and pulls open a door. “Doesn’t exactly scream ‘rockstar,’ does it?”

“I like it. It’s you.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” A smile tugs the corner of his mouth. Ian looks so much younger when he smiles, and much more handsome.

My heart skips.

“Follow me. I’ll heat up our dinner.” He sets the plates down and snatches the bag. When he flips another switch, a longer, darker part of the kitchen lights up. My eyes widen. It’s a stunning, high-end, complete chef’s kitchen.

“Alexa. Play soft jazz.”

Music emerges from speakers that blend in with the crown molding and my head moves to count how many. There are four; one in each corner and the music fits the vibe of the room. I watch as he pushes a button beneath the polished stone-topped island.

“I’ve never seen a stove like that.”

“La Cornue Chateau 150.” He rattles off the information then takes his eyes away from plating the meal to look up at my wide-eyed expression. “It’s from France.” He smiles.

I’m flabbergasted, disbelieving what I just heard him say.

“What?” He chuckles.

“You cook?”

“Don’t you?” His brow playfully quirks.

“Touché.” I agree with a tip of my head then look around. “I just never heard a guy rattle off the details of his stove.”

“Ah, but is it just a stove?” He jokes.

Is it? I have no idea but it’s a massive piece and the focal point of the room. He’s giving me the impression this room might be his favorite. Soft green paint covers the walls, with a white hue overhead on the ceiling. One entire wall is covered with pegboard, which is filled with all sorts of pots and pans. I look over at him as he reaches into the bag and empties the containers of food onto the plates. I look around the corner of the island just in time to see the plates disappear into an under-mounted microwave. He holds up the re-corked bottle of wine.

“Yes?”

I nod and he goes to another cabinet and retrieves a long-stemmed wine glass. I walk to his side as he uncorks and pours.

“Can I do anything to help?”

“I think I can handle it.” He juts his chin and looks over toward a cozy, semicircle nook. There, an oval table sits in front of a pillow-backed window seat. On the other side is an old church bench with a tufted cushion matching the one at the window. “Go. Sit. Take your wine. This’ll only be a minute.”

I follow his instructions, taking a seat at the window side of the table. The moon isn’t full tonight but its glow shines over a small garden.

“Are those herbs you’re growing out there?”

I turn as he places a tall glass of ice and a Coca-Cola directly across from where I’m sitting. “It is.”

“So, you do like to cook!”

“Never said I didn’t.” He returns to the beeping microwave and pulls out the plates. Once he’s approached the table, he sets the plates down and takes a seat across from me on the bench. “I used to eat so much fast food on the road.” He shakes his head. “Cooking gave me something to explore and, a man’s got to eat, right? Besides, when we get the occasional rain and the windows are open, it’s the best smell.” He picks up a fork and smiles. “Dig in.”

I do. I haven’t eaten all day. Apparently, neither has he, and we fill our stomachs in silence.

I watch Ian eat and he glances up, meeting my eyes. The corners of his eyes crinkle but his expression softens. His smile graces his lips more than he knows and the look reminds me of the tenderness inside a man who’s endured so much. The lines etched in his tanned skin aren’t just from time spent working in the sun, but of a hard life.

Funny how everyone sees the privilege and not the pain.

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