Page 25 of The Wrong Move

“The beach?”

“The beach, home…”

I think for a moment before answering. “There is comfort in being home, but I also found comfort in being somewhere nobody knew me.”

“I thought you were lonely?”

“At night.”

A soft growl sounds from his throat.

“Most days, I painted or worked with people, and I loved it. Most nights during the first few years, I came home to an empty bed in an empty house in a strange country.”

“I was going to say my bed is empty ninety-nine percent of the time, but we are discussing different situations here.”

“We are. You were living in a familiar place, and if you wanted, someone would be in your bed within seconds.”

“I didn’t want people in my bed. But that’s me.”

I know it is. Byron’s focus is next level. “They never stayed the night?”

“Rarely.”

“You wouldn’t want me either.”

“Don’t tell me what I want, Gi,” he says in a gentle but firm voice.

I need to backtrack. “We should go. If we’re having dinner, I need to shower and make myself beautiful,” I joke.

“We could have dinner like we are.”

I pull a face at him. “Restaurants have standards.”

“Not at my house.”

It’s my turn to grin. “Are you going to cook dinner for me?”

“I am.”

God help me. I should tear up my rule book right now.

We drive directlyto Byron’s house.

On entering his driveway, we stop on a turntable, and it spins us around so we reverse into the garage. The huge space oozes class, with polished floors, inbuilt cupboards, a kitchenette, and two more lavish black sports cars—a Lamborghini and a Range Rover.

“Are these yours?”

“They are, although I mostly drive the Porsche.” He takes my hand and leads me through a door to the hallway. A little farther along, we come to a dead end with three more doors. We enter through the middle door and take the stairs to the next level, which leads us into a vast marble kitchen.

He points to the stools at his kitchen island. “Take a seat.” With every step, I have turned my head like a sideshow clown as I take in his impressive home. Black is clearly his favorite—black leather stools, black faucets, black light fittings. There is a hint of brass, but even the marble counter has streaks of black and gold.

“Who styled your home?”

“My sister-in-law and I did most of it.”

“It’s stylish.”

“She’s in the business, and I have great taste.” He looks at me and smirks.

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