Page 63 of Forty

“Pain in the ass. Can’t work on my bike in the driveway.”

I don’t get it. “I thought you lived at the clubhouse?”

“Most of the time, yeah. But I got this place, too. Come on.” He grabs my hand and leads me to the front door. He keeps glancing down, watching my face.

He’s probably thinking about Ed Ellis in my bedroom. My gut churns.

“You hungry?” he asks as he unlocks the front door.

“Nope.” I want a shower. And a nap. And a time machine. Is he just not going to say anything? I’m into denial as much as the next girl, but it feels…anticlimactic. I guess I thought he’d be mad. Or something.

The only thing that’s changed is that now he has a tight grip on my hand.

“I’ll show you around.”

I shrug. So far, there’s not much to see. A roomy foyer with high-ceilings, natural light streaming in from those big windows. No furniture. It’s open concept, so I can see the living room. There’s a leather sofa and an enormous TV mounted on the wall. That’s it. The kitchen is on a two-step rise. A breakfast bar with stools and a fridge bigger than any closet I’ve ever had. Nothing on the countertops.

“Do you like it?” He’s standing at attention at my side, staring at the kitchen with me.

“Dusting must be a breeze.”

“I got a service for that.”

His phone rings, and he gives me await a secondfinger, heading into the other room to take the call. I poke in his cabinets while I eavesdrop on him arguing with someone, telling them to send Mikey or Bucky, he’ll check in later. He’s got the bare minimum in his pantry. Pasta and sauce. A box of Au Gratin potatoes.

The kitchen has two ovens, though. One next to the other, and two ranges on top with a griddle in between.

Forty ends his call with a grumpy “figure it the fuck out yourself” and wanders back in. I’m fiddling with the super-oven. It’s bright blue on the inside. Fancy.

“How come you’re rich?” I’m just gonna come out and ask. There’s no way the Army pays this well.

“Steel Bones Construction. All patched in members get an annual dividend.”

I whistle. “Business must be booming.”

He doesn’t answer. This must be getting uncomfortably close to “club business.”

“Come on.” He tugs me toward the stairs. There’s a landing halfway up and a railing along the upstairs hall like in a movie. A fancy chandelier hangs in the middle.

“You swing from that?” I nod up.

He grunts. He’s not amused.

“This is a spare room.” He opens a door and shows me an unfurnished bedroom with the vacuum marks still showing on the carpet. There’s a walk-in closet and a communicating door opens to an en suite.

He leads me to the next doorway. “Spare room.”

This bedroom must connect to the other’s bathroom.

He rests his hand on my lower back and urges me on. I lean back into the touch. It’s firm. Soothing.

“Let me guess. Spare room?”

“Library.”

This empty room doesn’t have a closet or en suite. Nor are there any books. But it does have a wall of built in shelves. Bare except for a lone can of WD-40.

“Very nice.”

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