“You should put a comfortable chair in here.” Frowning, he considered an unoccupied corner of the large room. “A chaise, perhaps. Near the windows.”
With a charming tilt of her head, she studied the space too. “Huh. That’s an idea.”
He could see her laid full-length on that lounge already. It would be velvet, soft as her skin, and some color he’d never, ever choose. One that would complement both the turquoise and her beautiful, fine, reddish-gold hair. Mustard, maybe, or plum. She’d bask in the sun, eyes closed, a lazy smile indenting the corners of that tempting mouth. Or maybe she’d pluck one of those countless books from the shelves in her den and read while reclining, lips pursed in concentration.
Or maybe she could put a leather club chair in that spot instead. An ottoman too.
Suddenly, the image in his mind shifted.
Suddenly, he was the one in the leather chair. He was the one reading with his feet up, napping, smiling, laughing as Poppy worked on her crime scene at her sunny desk and probably sang along to her music badly and at top volume until, unable to resist any longer, he set aside his book and swiveled her work chair to face him and kissed her and kissed her—
He shook his head near-violently, dismissing the vision.
How he’d even imagined such an unlikely scenario, he had no idea. He’d never encountered that kind of affection, that kind of peaceful but passionate intimacy, anywhere outside of fiction. Certainly not in his own experience of home and family.
Which reminded him: He owed her an explanation, because he wouldn’t let her continue to believe he’d insulted her in her own kitchen.
“When I said your house is homey, I meant it feels like a home.” No, that didn’t express what he wanted to say. He needed to abandon tautology in favor of specificity, no matter how uncomfortable he found it. “It feels—it feels like you. Warm and bright. Comfortable. Interesting. A place you can relax.”
It feels like the home I would have wanted. The home some part of me still wants.
Her fingers curled slightly on her tabletop, but otherwise, she’d gone completely still. “So thatwaspraise, after all. Not faint.”
“No.” He didn’t smile, because he wasn’t joking. “Not faint.”
“Why math?”
It was an abrupt question, an echo of what he’d said at dinner:Why murder?It was also something no one had ever asked him before, probably because his interest in numbers had always seemed self-evident. Cold, logical man; cold, logical subject.
But it wasn’t that simple. Nothing ever was, no matter what he’d prefer.
He held her gaze, unflinching. Flinty, his expression so blank nothing could grab hold of its pristine surface. “My childhood was…chaotic.”
His parents’ arguments followed no logic. They happened after stressful days at work, and they happened on vacation weekends, at a peaceful beach. They circled recent offenses, and then addressed affronts from decades before, and then leaped to predictions of enraging future behavior.
The only things Simon himself could predict: He’d hide in his room. Something—a glass, a plate, a table—would end up in pieces on the floor. The shouted accusations would hurt his ears. The sobs would hurt his heart. And it would all happen again, the following day or week.
There was no end to their problems, no solution to their conflicts.
Poppy was still waiting, eyes solemn and expectant, so he elaborated. “Math was a comfort for me. It seemed clean. Orderly. Rational.”
Safe.
“Okay.” Although one droopy bun was unraveling above her ear, she paid it no heed. “But if you wanted rationality and order, why teach high school? Teenagers are chaos incarnate.”
She was evaluating him like a crime scene, sharp as a sliver of broken glass on carpet. So sharp, she could make him bleed before he even knew she’d pierced his skin and burrowed beneath.
His shoulders had tightened to the point of pain. “Higher levels of math often involve problems with no clear solutions.”
“You could have become an accountant instead.”
No, she definitely wasn’t accepting half-truths. Not after having let him see her most private space, displaying it for his judgment despite his disdain of less than a week ago.
Maybe he was wrong, but he suspected she’d consider showing him her bedroom, her unclothed body, less intimate than guiding him inside her workroom.
Those hazel eyes flayed him, peeling away layer after layer until he stood shivering and exposed before her. He closed his eyes, because if he couldn’t see her, she couldn’t see him.
The illogic was galling and humiliating, but he clung to its scant protection.
