Page 171 of Mangled Memory
I shake my head once, wishing I hadn’t. My brain feels tooloose in my skull and shaking it swiftly sloshes it around. The vomiting loosened it; the shaking makes it worse. “No.” I use my words to avoid more pain, rubbing a hand against the stubble where they shaved my head, feeling gingerly along the ridge of scar that’s still tender.
He stands and does the hand scrubbing thing on his face, before silently walking to the kitchen. He returns with a cup of coffee, a scone, and a handful of grapes.
None of it makes my roiling stomach settle. Flat sprite and saltines sound good. Or water and toast. But coffee?
I break the scone apart and pop a little in my mouth, hoping the flour will soak up the acid. Maybe this is what the über rich do—scones instead of saltines. I’d laugh if the last time didn’t cause me to be in the very situation I’m in.
“How long have you lived here?”
He looks to the kitchen to my right, before settling his gaze back on me. “I bought this place three years ago and had some work done on it. I wasn’t in it four months or so when we met. You’ve been here with me since then, so we’ve lived here almost two years.”
I don’t miss the emphasis on theweeven though I don’t like it.
“What did you have done to it?” I keep my questions generic and not about any kind of “we” as I have another bite of scone.
“I gutted it. The bones were good. But the floor plan was dated and didn’t fit my needs. The master had a small bathroom and no closet space. I wanted the gourmet kitchen. It took almost nine months to get to what you see now.” He stares at my coffee before looking back to me. “No to the coffee?”
I shake my head, gently this time to avoid the pain.
“May I?”
I nod, and he takes the cup, taking a sip, wincing only slightly as he drinks.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“You like less cream than I do, but more sugar. Give me a second?” He stands and moves into the corner of the kitchen.
Of course he’d know how I take my coffee.
I hear gurgling and hissing before he returns, finding his seat on the ottoman, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. He takes a sip and his features practically mellow. “I can handle the cream part, but the sugar isn’t my thing. Not in coffee anyway.”
That explains his body. I can’t be certain, because I haven’t seen him naked, but if his tailored shirts are anything to go by, the muscles beneath it are a work of art. Broad rounded shoulders, tapered waist, solid thighs.
When my eyes make it to his face again, the grin that plays at his lips is devilish. “Ayla Barone, did you just check me out?”
The heat that washes over me singes my face, and I drop my eyes. But I know better than to give this man an inch. “No. I was just admiring the furniture.”
“The furniture,” he repeats, humor playing in his voice.
I go back to safer topics. “What’s your favorite part of the house?”
“Want to see?” He stands and extends a hand. I avoid it again and quickly realize my mistake, because he lays a hand on my lower back as we move to the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that I now see aren’t windows at all. They’re bifold steel doors that open the entire length of the great room onto an outdoor living area.
A stone terrace runs along the back of the house overlooking a lush green lawn. That kind of grass in this climate is an investment all to itself, much less its maintenance. On the kitchen side of the house is the outdoor entertainment area, two different grills, outdoor refrigerator, and a cooktop. All look brand new, polished until shining. There’s a series of fans in the rolled wood ceiling above making this an outdoor living space, not merely a porch.
The area where we stand has multiple seating areas with a fire pit. Beyond this to my left is more but I can’t decipher what. I wander, walking away from the hand on my lower back,disconnecting from a man who is still a stranger to me, no matter what I am to him.
He follows silently until I stop at the hot tub and thin lap pool beside it.
“Which part of this is your favorite?”
“The peace. A city of nearly three million and all the conveniences that provides, and this little patch of land.” He extends the hand still holding his coffee cup, and I follow his gaze seeing more than a patch, fully lined in trees creating a layer of privacy. “It’s peaceful. It’s home.”
“And what was my favorite part?”
