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He follows me through my front door, and I cast a glance around my entryway, clocking all of what he must see. Scarves hanging on a hat tree with no hats. A half-dead fern I should have watered more. A jar of pennies I’ve had on a console table for years. It may never be full, but I can’t pass up a penny I find on the ground, so I designated a spot for them in my house.
I keep moving, hoping he’s hot on my heels and not noticing any of that. But because Colin seems never to do what I want or expect him to do, he’s missing by the time I get to my living room and turn around.
Retracing my steps, I find that he’s taken a side journey to a small bookshelf on one wall of the dining room. “Did I lose you along the way?”
He shakes his head, eyes darting from one title to the next. I suddenly feel exposed, like having him know what books I’ve shelved there reveals too much about me. “You’re a Shakespeare fan?” He points at a large volume containing every Shakespearean tragedy.
“I took some in college.”
“Some?” He points at several other paperbacks of Shakespearean plays. “This is more than some.”
I move in the direction of my kitchen, where I was sitting at the table nursing a glass of wine before he started in with the lock earlier. He doesn’t take the hint and follow me.
“I liked Shakespeare. Especially the tragedies.”
“Yeah, me too. Those are my favorites.” His voice sounds muffled, as though he’s bent over, looking at the books in the corner. That means he’s found his way to my non-fiction collection. I wait for his commentary on that, but he says nothing.
He also doesn’t come into the kitchen, and I give up on trying to hurry him along. I’m starting to get used to the idea that Colin Hathaway moves at his own inexplicable pace. I take a second wineglass from the cabinet and place it next to mine on my table, a gray and white slab of marble sitting on a metal base.
Colin finally appears in the kitchen doorway, bracing his arms against the door-jamb and watching me. I open the fridge and retrieve the bottle of wine and a bowl of grapes. “Grapes, huh? Guess that’s expected at a winery.”
“You are pure comedy, Colin. Did anyone ever tell you that?”
“Nope, you’re the first.”
I sit back down at the table and uncork the wine bottle. He abruptly moves closer and puts his hand out. “Here, allow me.” Taking the bottle from me, he refills my glass and hands it to me.
I gesture to the empty glass on the table. “That’s for you, if you’d like some.”
He tilts his head to the side. “I already had a glass and a half with your brother at dinner.”
“Okay. Water instead?” I offer.
He stands in front of my table. Hovers over it, really. His eyes take me in again like they did this morning. I feel like he’s assessing me, but like earlier, I have no idea what observation he makes. Expression stoic and inscrutable, he regards my flimsy tank top, which I really should cover up now that I have the chance. But it’s warm in my house, and…it’s my house. I don’t really feel like changing my actions for a man.
“Coffee? Easy foam, half-caf caramel macchiato, extra hot?”
He watches my mouth as I say the words. I’d normally find it unnerving to be scrutinized, judged, and probably found to be too sarcastic, too sassy, too…much. Wouldn’t be the first—or the tenth—time someone thought that about me. I have siblings to remind me on the daily.
But I don’t feel like that’s what he sees, even if I can’t explain why.
“No, thank you,” he says, gaze moving away from me to my kitchen, lit by two overhead pendant globes that hang over a small island. Again, I see my house through the eyes of someone who’s never been here before, and that makes me notice things that don’t normally snag my attention.
The electric mixer gathering dust because I never bake. The oversized farm sink with brass hardware matching a second sink in the island. A massive stove where I cook dinners for one almost every night.
The pile of newspapers on a corner of the counter because I’m one of those 21stcentury weirdos who read an actual paper each day. Two of them, actually. Got that habit from my dad. He leans against the island, feet crossed at the ankles, and points at the stack. “Occupational hazard? Gotta read what people are writing about Buttercup Hill?”
“Ha. Something like that.” I could pretend he’s right. With most people, I’d do that because it’s easier to let them think what they want. Especially in a situation like this one, where Colin is only here briefly. It’s not worth revealing a piece of myself.
“But…not that?” His eyes flash. Blue like the Adriatic Sea. Almost playful, crinkling at the corners even though I’ve yet to earn another smile. Apparently, he only smiles at squirrels.
“I like the feel of paper. It’s the ritual, spreading it out on the counter.” I spit out the words as though he’s dragged a confession out of me after ten minutes of water boarding. But his slow nod and the dimple that pops feel like anything but a punishment.
His eyes move to the counter as though imagining me reading there each day. Arms crossed. The more time I spend in his presence, the less I feel like I know him. Which is odd.
“I think I’ll take that glass of wine now,” he says, slowly pulling out the chair opposite me and sitting down. Here we are again, a replay of this morning.
“You sure?” I don’t want him to feel pressured to drink wine just because I’m having a glass.
