Page 55 of Conrad

“I’m not.”

“You totally are.”

He’d stopped at the Postimpressionist painting that hung on the wall opposite the fireplace.

“Yes, that is a Cézanne original.”

“My mother would love to see this place. She’s all things vintage.” He ran his hand along the scrolled built-in bookcase, then stood behind the creamy white sofa that faced the fireplace. Puddles of light fell from the sconces on the walls.

He walked over to the solarium, heavy with the scent of plants. Terra-cotta tile led to the floor-to-ceiling picture window and doors. Beyond, in the darkness, the expansive lawn led right down to the lake.

He turned to her. “Do I need a tie?”

“Stop talking. I’m starved.” She pulled him toward the smells of the dining room.

So maybe she was hungry.

Except, in the room papered in gold tapestry, the chairs were empty at the twelve-foot dining table, although candles flickered in the candelabra in the middle and places were set. The smell of garlic and a hearty roast came from the kitchen.

She pressed a hand against her growling stomach.

“This is thesmalldining room?” Conrad arched a brow.

“Fine. Follow me.” She gestured back to where they’d come from and crossed through the great room to the dining hall.

An eighteen-foot walnut table, coffered ceiling, a custom-made Turkish rug, and gold-framed pictures of her greats, most of them with family gathered on the lawn.

“Nowthisis how to have a family dinner. We could fit the entire Blue Ox team.”

“My dad has a big party every year, brings in his board. We usually use the small dining room for family.”

“Pep! I didn’t think you were coming.”

She turned and Tia came into the room, wearing leggings and a gold blouse, UGG slippers. “Is this . . . wait—Conrad Kingston? You were at the gala, right?”

Please. Penelope managed not to roll her eyes.

He had to bend over to give Tia a hug, and she rose on her tiptoes as she looked over at Penelope and winked.

Aw.Don’t get crazy, Penelope mouthed. She needed a word with her sister.

“Sadly, despite the great smell, the gas went out on the stove,” Tia said. She turned to Conrad. “In this old house, we aren’t connected to city gas or water or sewer, so we have our tanks delivered.” She put her hands on her hips. “Our house manager, Charles, was out last week, and Chef Taylor didn’t think to order it. Anyway, Mother is the kitchen and . . . I think we might be having peanut butter sandwiches.”

Conrad did a poor job of hiding a smile. “Back to steaks at my place?”

“Fine. But first, I need a minute with Tia.”

He held up his hands. “I’ll be in the great room looking for a first-edition Dickens.”

“It’s on the top—” Tia started.

Penelope grabbed her arm and pulled her away, into the hallway and down toward their mother’s office. Their father had a study on the other side of the great room.

She pulled her inside the room with plush white Turkish rugs, deep blue sofas, and pictures of their family gallery-style on the walls. A Queen Anne desk her mother rarely sat at faced yet another fireplace, this one in white marble.

“What?” Tia said, rounding on her. “And what is Conrad Kingston doing here? And by the way—he is still smokin’—”

“Stop talking and listen.”

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