Page 29 of Rough Hard Fierce (Chicago Underground 1-3)
“Wine? Beer?”
“Oh.” I didn’t usually drink alcohol except for my club nights. The numbing effects would be welcomed now, except I needed to keep it together tonight. Didn’t want to go spilling secrets, after all. “Maybe just water.”
He handed me a glass. “We’ve got a few minutes before the pot roast is done.”
“Mmm, pot roast.” It had been forever since I’d had real meat, not the rubbery stuff that came in canned soup. Since my last date with Colin, actually. “It smells amazing.”
“It’s from the restaurant.” He quirked his lips. “With scalloped potatoes.”
I grinned. “So you’re a meat and potatoes kind of guy.”
He shrugged. “I’m pretty simple.”
I snorted. Simple as a Rubik’s Cube. But all I said was, “Maybe.”
The white cabinets, Formica countertops, and tiled backsplash matched the quaintness of the house but looked new. The stainless-steel appliances and fixtures completed the picture of a modern kitchen. But I’d expect nothing less from the owner of a restaurant. I might have been envious if I had ever imagined such things for myself.
I peered back the way we’d come, through the dining room.
“Did you want me to show you around?” he asked.
“Yes.” I smiled. I noted his hesitation and his stiffness, but I did want to see his house. Every little detail, from the green splash of color from the tea towel to the prickly aloe plant that sat on the counter, was a piece of Colin. I would hoard that knowledge like a miser collects coins and later strums through them with his fingers just for the pleasure of it.
Despite the coziness of the house, there was a definite sparseness to its furnishing. So male. So Colin. Plush seating and dark wood furniture stood so perfectly in place, without clutter, that I half expected to see price tags hanging on them.
Colin was quiet, even for him. And watchful. He walked ahead of me, leading me to the different rooms—the living room, the dining room, a study. And outside, the back porch overlooking a small but lush lawn. I oohed and ahhed. It came naturally, this admiration, because his house was beautiful and stark, like him. The place was large enough to be roomy, but small enough to be cozy. It was, as Goldilocks would say in Bailey’s book, just right. But I felt like he was waiting for something specific in my responses.
I leaned my elbows on the wood rail of the back patio as if I belonged. “It’s a great house.”
“Do you think so?” he asked. It didn’t sound like the idle question it should have been.
“Absolutely. It’s perfect. Why? You aren’t thinking of selling it, are you?”
“If I did, would you buy it?”
I laughed. “There’s no way I could afford this house. How much does something like this run? One hundred thousand?”
A faint blush tinted his cheeks, and I knew it had cost more. Not that I could even afford a fraction of that. It might as well have been a castle for all that it was accessible to me.
“The food’s probably ready,” he said, and we went back inside the house.
I found the dishes while he transferred the food from metal pots to ceramic platters. We met at the dining table amid clanking utensils. I set a place for him at the head of the table and sat next to him. That left five empty chairs and a wide expanse of cherry wood table.
“Do you have company often?” I as
ked.
His eyes flicked over the table, all those empty chairs. “No.”
I took a bite of the pot roast. The juices exploded in my mouth, and I released a soft moan. “God, this is good.”
A quick smile. “I’m glad you like it.”
“I bet you get that all the time.”
He shrugged. “It’s nice to eat a meal here, for once. And to have company.” My face heated. “How’s Bailey?”
I blinked. “She’s fine. And your brother?”
