Page 88 of Peasants and Kings
“Hadrian.”
“Trust me.”
I sighed but put down the grinder and picked up a spoon. I waited for the spoonful to cool and then took a dainty sip of broth.
“Go ahead,” Hadrian said with a wry grin. “I’ll wait.”
“For what?”
“For you to tell me I was right.”
“Just for that, I should season it.”
“And ruin a perfectly good mutton stew? No. I don’t think so.” He began to eat. After a moment, he said, “What do you think?”
“It’s delicious.”
He shook his head. “I know. I meant, what do you think of my home?”
“It’s impressive,” I said, ladling another spoonful into my mouth and not meeting his gaze.
“That’s a diplomatic answer if I’ve ever heard one,” he said in amusement. “Tell me the truth. What do you really think of it?”
“It’s cold and,” I paused, searching for the right word, “sterile.”
“Sterile,” he repeated.
“It’s not inviting. At all.”
“Good,” he said.
We fell into a charged silence. I kept my eyes on my bowl, consuming every bite and relishing the rich, hearty flavors on my tongue. I would’ve gladly kept eating just to have something to do, just so I didn’t have to talk to Hadrian.
He’d asked my opinion and I’d told him the truth, and he hadn’t liked what I’d had to say.
“Are you ready to see the rest of my sterile house?” he asked, his tone dry.
“There’s more?” I asked in surprise.
“Aye,” he said quietly.
I had no inkling what he was thinking and instead of trying to apologize for being honest, I merely nodded.
We stood from the table and gathered our empty dishes. After we went into the kitchen and placed them in the sink, Hadrian took my hand and led me to a nondescript door that looked like a broom closet—only it wasn’t a closet—but a passage to a fully enclosed glass walkway. We were fifteen feet in the air and if I looked down, I could see the sandy beach below. The glass walls were thick, and I could stare out at the ocean. Birds flew across the beach and then rested in nests nestled within the rocks.
“I designed this home so that I’d never feel trapped. The open, airy concept has a Scandinavian influence.”
I nodded at his explanation. “It makes sense, it’s just—well, there’s nothing personal here, nothing to make it seem like you.”
“Seem like me,” he repeated. “And who do you think I am?”
“I don’t know.” I frowned. “I know you like functionality over flash. That makes sense. But I guess—where are all your personal touches?”
“Such as?”
“Pictures? Artwork…anything…”
“Pictures. Do you mean photographs of me through the years?”
