“You must be good at it.” I look around his bedroom, though the light is still too faint to reveal much.
“You mean the house?”
I nod.
“Does it make you uncomfortable? Only you seem kind of stiff.”
I scratch my neck, disconcerted he’s hit the nail on the head. “A bit. I’m not used to all of this. I’m just a librarian.”
“A lot of people only care about money.”
“I’m not a lot of people.”
“I know. Would it make you feel better if I told you that my grandfather actually built this house?”
“Yes! My dad’s dad built things too—though no houses. Mostly cabinets and bookshelves.”
“Come on, I’ll give you a tour.” He holds out his hand. I take it and walk on my knees across the bed.
He leads me out the bedroom door, and down the hallway, turning right near the end.
There’s no door, but inside there’s the large kitchen/dining room. The stainless steel appliances are framed in black cabinets with long rectangular steel handles. The shiny floor is either granite or marble and is a light almost pinkish-white that contrasts well with the dark cupboards. The counter along the edges and the surface of the large, square island are a light whitish-pink as well. The island’s corners have a stainless steel detail along them, pulling the look together. The lighting is all recessed, except for three hanging fixtures—stained glass orbs that highlight the island. The back splash is made of thin horizontal rectangular tiles, in grey, black, and the same pale pink.
It’s the most beautiful kitchen I’ve ever seen.
Twenty-five feet away, the dining room wall is basically a giant window, looking out over the backyard, and river, painted in navy blue shadows and moonlight. The table is a tall chrome and glass affair, with black leather bar-style high backed stools.
It looks too perfect to be a home. I narrow my eyes at Dominic and head for the fridge. Pulling it open, there is indeed food inside.
“It’s real.”
“What?” He sounds amused.
“It looks like a friggin’ show home. I had to check that someone actually lives here. You’ve got to eat, and the fridge seemed like the best place to confirm that someone does, in fact, live here.”
He shakes his head. “Are you hungry?”
“No, but I am thirsty.”
He grabs a couple of glasses and fills them with cold water from a jug in the fridge. We lean against the counter sipping our waters, not touching, shyly smiling when we make eye contact. A large, lanky cat with the colouring of a mountain lion pads into the kitchen.
“Who’s this?” I watch him as he bumps into Dominic’s calf.
Dominic bends and scoops the cat up. “This is Grawlix.”
“That sounds familiar, but I can’t think why.”
“Grawlix are the symbols, like exclamation mark, star, dollar sign, used to replace swears when you’re writing.”
“Ah yes. Why’d you name him Grawlix?”
“Because he’s kind of an asshole.”
Struggling to free himself, Grawlix bats at Dominic’s hand, and stalks toward me on the counter when Dominic lets him go.
“Grawl! He’s not supposed to be on the counter.”
“What kind of cat is he? I’ve never seen one like him.”
“He’s an Abyssinian.”
Grawlix walks right up to me and bumps his head against my hand. Though his fur looks coarse, he’s silky to the touch, and presses against my hand when I gingerly pet him.
“How old is he? Have you had him since he was a kitten?”
“He’s about three. No, he’s a shelter cat. I gave a friend a ride there one day when her dog was found, and made the mistake of looking around. This jerk here hissed at me and batted at the grill of his cage like he was going to start something. I found out he’d been declawed by a previous owner.”
“Awww. Sometimes I really hate people.”
“I know, it’s barbaric. But I admired his attitude. They’d taken his claws, but he was still a little instigator. I stood there for a minute and he settled down. I walked around the room, looking at other cats, but felt like he was the one. When I walked back and put my finger in the cage, he licked it and decided to come home with me.”
“That’s adorable.” I stroke the centre of the cat’s forehead, and he purrs, a strange, broken sound. “What’s wrong with his purr?”
“He doesn’t do it that often. Must be out of practice.” Dominic grins. “No, he’s got a strange voice, purr included. All part of his charm. Want to see the rest of the house?”
“Sure.”
We leave the kitchen and walk back down the hall, and I see a guest bedroom with dark sage coloured walls, and a gorgeous four-poster bed.
“Did your grandfather make the bed too?”
“Yes. He did all kinds of woodwork.”
“What was his name?”
He smiles. “Dominic.”
I kiss his bare shoulder and walk back into the hallway to continue the tour. Another guest bedroom, this one in a light mushroom colour, with a gorgeous en suite bathroom. There’s a little patio outside with a wrought-iron table and chairs. In the darkness, I can’t see much past the table, but what I can make out of the garden is beautiful.
My eyes bug out when I see the main bathroom. The marble floor is darker, the pattern more distinctive, like cream swirling through a latte. The room is longer than wide. On the right is a gorgeous double sink, the counter stretching for about seven feet along the wall. It looks more like a dresser made of marble, dressed in the same shades of the floor, and a rich off-white. There are no hard angles, only gently curved lines.
Another amazing stand-alone shower is on the left. Past the shower and the vanity, the toilet is to the right. But it’s the amazing bathtub at the very end under the window that I’m goggling at. Made for luxuriating in, its perfection makes me jealous. My bathtub at home would hang its head in shame—if it had a head. Or feelings.
“Your grandfather built this? It looks so new.”
“Well,” Dominic admits. “I may have upgraded a few things. Come on.”
The living room is large with a high ceiling, maybe twenty feet with a large window along the wall. The view in here is the same as in the dining room. The walls are a purplish-taupe, couch and chairs are dark grey and have clean, modern lines. Boxy and devoid of personality. There’s an absolutely gorgeously ornate fireplace, mantle carved in a beautiful dark wood, in the middle of the far wall. A baby grand piano sits beside it.
“Do you play?”
“A little bit. It was my grandmother’s baby. She used to play for hours, taught me some.” In the corner, there’s a beautiful, intricately carved wooden double spiral staircase leading to the ceiling.
I must make a critical noise.
“What’s up?” Dominic steps toward me.
“I mean, it’s a nice enough room and everything.”
“But?”
“The only things I like in here, other than the piano, are the fireplace and staircase. They’re beautiful, but the rest is so... lifeless.” My face flushes with heat, and I feel like an asshole for coming into his house and saying this. “I just can’t see you spending much time in here, you know?” I try to qualify further.
He says nothing, just takes me in his arms and lays a slow kiss on me that curls my toes. He pulls back and smoothes a section of my hair behind my ear.
“You’re incredible.”
The look in his eyes leaves me more breathless than the kiss.
“Come on. I want to show you something.” He leads me to the staircase, and I follow him up, enjoying the view.
The staircase is even more beautiful up close. “Your grandfather built this?”
“Yes. Did all the carving himself.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“It’s my favourite thing in the room.” He flips on a light.
“Just the room? What’s you
r favourite thing in the house?” We reach the top of the stairs. “Oh.”
“Yeah. This is my favourite thing in the house.”
Chapter Nineteen
It’s a library. It’s a quarter of the size of the living room and the ceiling is only about eight feet tall. And it’s perfect. Dark mahogany shelves, floor to ceiling on three walls filled with books, mostly large leather-bound volumes, but some novels as well. The ceiling and the bits of walls peeking through the shelves are a creamy caramel colour. It smells like new books and old leather, with the faint smell of Dominic underneath it all. There are a couple squishy-looking leather chairs, and a matching couch, in a dark blue. Stepping forward, I trail my fingertips along the top of the desk, looking at the papers, and thick textbooks he’s got open.
“Work stuff,” he says.
The fourth wall has a window seat. I covet! Dark blue curtains are gathered on either side of the window. Looking up, I see it’s not to cover the window—it’s to close the seat off from the rest of the room. I rush forward and look out the window. It’s the same view of the river and must be absolutely gorgeous during the day.
“This room, Dominic. This is where you are in the house.” It feels like him. I can picture him slouched over the desk with a cup of coffee and a book, making notes. I can see him sitting here on the window seat, absorbed in a novel until the daylight fades from the sky. “I couldn’t see you anywhere in the rest of the house. It’s beautiful, but this room is you.”
“It’s why I had to show you up here. This is where I spend most of my time.”
A book shifts forward into my hand from a small pile on the seat. A pile of all the books I recommended to him—minus the ones he’s already read, and the one I recommended to him last, melting my heart a little bit more. A thin strip of wood marks the page he’s stopped on. Opening to the page, I finger the blond bookmark, burnished to a soft shine.
“D for Dominic. Yours, or your grandfather’s?” I point at the stylized letter cut into the design.
“It was my grandfather’s.” He walks over to where I stand and sits sideways on the window seat.
“You and he were close?” I sit facing him.
“Yes. He was more of a dad to me than my own father.”
“You guys didn’t get along?”
“No. He was an asshole. Only cared about business, making money. I know it sounds hypocritical coming from me, surrounded by all of this wealth. I come from what they call, ‘old money.’ Mother’s side. I’m pretty sure that’s the reason my father married her.” His voice is tight.
Ouch. “When you talk about your grandfather, the one who built this place, was that your mom’s dad, or your dad’s dad?”
“Dad’s dad. Mom’s parents passed away when she was young, leaving her all they had. I’m a trust fund baby.”
“Terribly spoiled?” I tease, remembering his words from our first date.
“Yes. In a lot of ways. My mother’s family saw to it that I’d never want for money. My grandparents saw to it I’d never want for love.”
And his father saw to it he’d never want for pain.
“Talking about him stresses me out.” His jaw tightens, and his eyes cloud with emotion. “I hate everything about my father.”
I grab his hand and look out the window letting him pick up where he wants to.
“But they’ve been gone for years,” he continues softly. “I miss my grandpa every day.”
“What was he like?”
His pale reflection in the window smiles. “He was old school. Hard working, strong. Honest. He was funny. He played solitaire every day at the breakfast table. Game after game. Said he was trying to beat the devil, whatever that meant. This one time I bought him a laptop with nothing but card games loaded onto it. I loaded up Solitaire, showed him how to play it. But he never used it. I think the shuffling of the cards was part of the ritual. The gentle snapping of them against the table as he flipped them over.” He falls silent, lost inside memories I can’t reach.
“What was your grandma like?”
“She was like a warm hug on a cold day. She didn’t always tell you how she felt, but she always showed it with her actions. A favourite meal; paying attention to things you liked, and surprising you with them as gifts later, when you thought she’d forgotten all about it.”
“Little things that mean so much,” I say softly. Now I know where he gets it from.
He squeezes my hand. “In a way, I’m glad I grew up with my grandparents instead of my parents. Seeing the love, the respect they shared. They really were best friends. They needed each other.” A sudden memory lights his face. “This one time, Gran went to visit an old friend for a couple days. She had made suppers, put them in the fridge, but left Grandpa to fend for himself for lunches. I walked into the kitchen, and he asked if I’d like a tuna sandwich. I said yes. He was stirring the mayo into the tuna, but had a strange look on his face. I asked what was wrong. He said he didn’t know why it was so runny.”
“The tuna was runny?”
He chuckles. “He hadn’t drained the water out of the can.”
“That’s adorable.”
“I know. He was so used to her doing the cooking, that something that simple flummoxed him. He kept saying, ‘I don’t know what Gran does differently.’ I didn’t have the heart to tell him. I was twelve. But they took care of each other, complemented each other perfectly.”
“They sound like great people to grow up around.”
“They were. They pushed me to go for my dreams, to never settle. They tried to raise me right.”
“You’ve done them proud.”
He pulls me to him, squeezes me gently. “I’ve tried.”
“You’ve succeeded,” I insist.
He strokes my cheekbone with his thumb and leans in. I’m happily drowning in his eyes, wallowing in the pool of heat in my belly. Then he pulls me to him and kisses me. I reach to grab his shirt so I can clutch him tighter to me, but he isn’t wearing a shirt. My hands explore the warm planes of his chest, the strong lines of his shoulders and arms. Women would kill to have skin as perfect as his.
Warm, champagne bubbles softly swirl up my spine and stroke my scalp. Dominic kisses down my throat, unleashing hot sparks across my skin. A shiver tears through me.
“Dominic, if you aren’t careful, these books are going to see more action than they’d planned on.”
He laughs, and continues kissing and nuzzling my neck, running his hands across my lower back. “I’d love nothing more than to knock some of these books off the shelves with you.”
My inner librarian disapproves. She can go to hell.
Chapter Twenty
“Hey, do you want to call Clay, pitch in for an ounce?” Nick asks.
“No, I’m still taking a break.”
“Still? It’s been over two months.”
Huh. I guess it has. “Why don’t you just call him?”
Nick gives me a look. “Not sure if you noticed or not, but he always gives you a better deal. You’re cute. He’s sweet on you. I’m willing to exploit that.”
“Come on!” I laugh, but kind of know it’s true. Personally, I think he just likes that he gets to hang out with us; not only are we not sketchy characters, we’re all capable of decent conversation. Clay’s had plenty of time to hit on me when we’ve hung out alone and hasn’t. I’m sure we’re both just fine with the dynamic of our relationship.
Kennedy turns down the stereo while I key in Clay’s number. It rings three times before he answers.
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s Elle.”
“Elle who?”
“Ha ha. Can you swing by?”
“How much you looking for?”
“An ounce,” I reply.
“Can’t make it for about an hour, hour and a half.”
“That’s cool. We’ll see you then.” I hang up.
“How long?” Nick cracks his knuckles.
“An hour-ish.”<
br />
“That sucks.”
“Well,” Kennedy says. “We could go pick up some food and be back before he gets here. Maybe Chinese? Could kill some time anyways.”
“Sounds good.” Mmm Chinese. “I’ll grab my coat.”
“Oh,” she pulls a face. “I think one of us should stay here in case he comes early. I’d stay, but I have to hit the bank if we’re doing food too.” She drops her share of the weed money on the coffee table. Nick does the same.
“Ah, fair enough.” Nick’s the driver of the group, so it looks like I’ll be staying home.
“Centennial Gardens. What do you want to eat?” Kennedy asks.
“Like you even need to ask. I haven’t changed my order in years.”
“I know, but you never know. Maybe you’ll wake up one day and decide to try something new.”
“Doubt it.” Nick pokes her shoulder. “Let’s get going, Ken.”
“Hurry back!” I call, but they’re already out the door. Throwing one of my mix CD’s into the stereo, I head to the kitchen to get plates ready for supper and make sure there’s room on the counter to set the food, for ease of dishing up. While we all have our certain items we always order, we do prefer eating buffet style, sharing our choices.
The kitchen’s a bit messy, so I unload the dishwasher, do some dishes, and give the counter a swipe with a cloth. There’s a knock at the door. “Shave and a haircut.”
I look at the microwave clock. Clay is early. And Kennedy and Nick have been gone for forty-five minutes. They should be back by now.
Drying my hands on the thighs of my jeans, I walk to the door and check the peephole.
“Hey, Clay.” I swing the door open.
“Hey.”
“Come in. Kennedy and Nick went to grab some food.”
“Oh, I can’t stay. I’ve got other deliveries to make.”
“Oh. Okay.”
He walks in and follows me to the living room while I grab the money. Weird. He usually chills with us. “Here you go.” I hold out the cash.
He pulls out an ounce.
I open the bag and smell it. My mouth waters. I haven’t smoked in almost two months, but I still like the smell. “Awesome.” I set the bag on the coffee table.
Just Breathe Page 14