Now where would he keep it?
There’s a photo of that dog somewhere.
I need it. Because I have a plan—a ten-step plan.
It’s not in any of the drawers. It might be in the safe that’s hidden behind the painting of a bomb being dropped on a medieval city. I try a few numbers halfheartedly then give up.
I creep up the service staircase—yes, his penthouse has two different staircases—so he doesn’t see me from the oversized windows on the main stair.
I poke through this bedroom. Nothing in the nightstand or hidden in a dresser or tucked in a box under the bed.
I run my hands through the rack of dark suits in the oversized closet. A man does not need a closet this big. He doesn’t even have that many shoes.
The light in the closet is soft, soothing. The drawers open silently, the wood cool beneath my fingers as I inspect them one by one.
And there it is—in the drawer filled with expensive watches. In the corner is tucked a worn-edged photograph with of a grinning little blond boy, his arms wrapped around a goofy-looking dog.
I stare at him. McCarthy’s inner child. The one I need to heal.
It’s nothing to take a photo of the Polaroid, tuck the original carefully back in the hiding place, and sneak downstairs.
The soup’s ready. I test it, add more salt, then gently place the grilled cheese on the panini maker.
There’s movement from the living room. I jump back, hands behind my back.
McCarthy staggers inside and runs a hand through his messy hair.
“You should probably eat something.”
He’s silent. Doesn’t look at me.
Impulsively, thinking of the little boy in the photo, I wrap my arms around his middle, squeeze him tight to me. He sags against me, arms coming up to cradle my shoulders, and buries his face in my hair, whispering something silently against my neck.
I pull back, though, when he tries to tilt my face up. His mouth is slightly parted, his eyes dark.
“We shouldn’t.” I rub his arms. “I shouldn’t have kissed you. I’m sorry. You were sharing something deeply personal and traumatizing, and I took advantage of you.”
“Seriously, Cupcake?” He runs his thumb over my lower lip. “You can always take advantage of me.”
He kisses me softly—anywhere he can reach, my chin, my cheek, my nose, my eyelids.
“Food,” I gasp, tearing away from him.
He keeps a hand on my back, like we’re a couple, like this is a real relationship that’s leading to marriage.
You don’t know. It could happen.
Who am I to go against what the relationship gods want?
I cut the grilled cheese into triangles and give Truman his portion in the kitchen so I don’t trigger McCarthy.
“I don’t eat bread,” he says flatly as I set the plates on the table and add a little dollop of sour cream to the big bowls of bright-red soup.
“And that’s why you’re so difficult to be around. Bread and carbs are the two major food groups.”
Glasses thunk on the table, then I’m wrestling open a stubborn bottle of wine.
“Did you just open that with your shoe?” McCarthy peers at me as I give the bottle one last bang.
