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“Sure,” she agreed.
Fair was fair. And there was no reason not to show him her apartment. In fact, she found she liked the idea. It could be that she was romanticizing the situation, but saying good-night in her place felt better than saying it at the curb.
They walked to the front door. She inserted her key, and Troy held it open. The lobby was small—two elevators, a door to the staircase, a couple of armchairs and a planter.
Both elevators were parked at the lobby. Troy pressed the button and the doors immediately opened.
“Twelve,” he said, reaching for the button.
“Did you study up on my employee forms?”
“I thought one day there’d be a quiz.”
The door closed behind them.
“What else do you know about me?”
“Your weight. Your height. Your graduation date. And your mother’s maiden name.”
“Not my bank account numbers?”
He smirked. “Well, we did need them for direct deposit.”
“I trusted you.”
“You can trust me.”
The doors slid open, and they began to walk again.
“I’m at the end,” she said. “Or did you know that too?”
“Never took a look at the schematics.”
“But you could?”
“Edison would have them for me in about five minutes.”
She unlocked the apartment door, swinging it open on a living room, open kitchen and a door that led to the bedroom and bathroom.
“It’s small,” she warned, flicking the light switch.
He gazed around at the dove-gray sofa, the coral throw pillows, the white accent tables and the watercolor portraits. “Wow.”
“Wow good or wow bad?”
“Wow, prettier than I expected.”
“So, you’re back to thinking I’m a girl.”
“I always knew you were a girl.” He stepped toward the longest row of paintings. “Who are these people?”
“I have no idea.”
He turned. “You hung strangers on your wall?”
“Is that weird?”
“A little. I’d think you’d go with people you knew, or maybe celebrities or public figures.”
She moved up beside him. “I like the artists. And the subjects...” She tried to put it into words. “They’re people I’d like to know. Each of them strikes me as mysterious, enigmatic, someone who has a secret.”
“You like secrets?”
“I like complexity. Are you hungry?” She realized she was starving. “Cookies?”
He smiled. “You have cookies?”
“Homemade, chocolate chip.”
“You baked cookies?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.” She unzipped his jacket, draping it over a kitchen chair as she made her way to the cupboard.
“You definitely don’t strike me as the homemaker type.”
“Then aren’t you learning a whole lot of new things?”
“I am.”
She took the container from the bottom shelf. “I like cookies. I like them fresh. So I learned how to make them.”
“Cookies sound terrific,” he said.
She returned the few steps to the living room, taking a seat on the sofa and setting the cookie container on the glass-topped coffee table, removing the lid.
Troy perched beside her, peering in. “Those look great. And they smell delicious.”
“Help yourself.”
He did.
She took two, kicked off her shoes and curled her feet beneath her on the sofa. As she did, she remembered her underwear. It was still stuffed under the seat of his SUV.
“What?” he asked, studying her expression.
“Nothing.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I left some of my clothes in your car.”
He did a slow blink, his expression going slightly intense.
She bit down on a cookie.
“I’ll get them later,” he said.
She nodded.
His gaze held hers as he took a first bite.
Then his eyes lit up in surprise. “Delicious.”
The reaction warmed her. “I have many talents.”
“I’ll say.” He took another bite.
He picked out a second cookie, then he leaned back, his shoulder brushing hers. “Tell me more about your overly accomplished bombshell sister.”
Mila faked an offended tone. “Hoping to do a little comparison shopping?”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m doing.”
“Sorry, bud. Zoey has a secret boyfriend.”
“A secret boyfriend?” The interest level in his voice rose.
“A judge who’s at odds with my mother.”
“Is it serious?”
“It might be. And when the secret comes out, it’s all going to hit the fan.”
“It’s her life,” he said reasonably.
“Maybe so, but we’re a close family. And they have expectations.”
“That your parents get to approve your boyfriend?”
“Not exactly.” She paused to think. “Well, kind of. It’s important to them that we still work as a team.”
“Team Stern?”
“Yes.”
Troy took her hand. “You’re twenty-four years old.”
“You got that from my employment form.”
“I did. But it’s true.”
She watched his thumb stroke a circular pattern on the back of her hand. She felt his light touch delve to the center of her chest, tightening her heart, making her body feel heavy and wanting.
“What’s your point?” she asked.
He was silent for so long that she didn’t think he was going to answer.
“No point.” He cradled her head, drawing it down to rest on his shoulder. “We’re going to figure this out.”
“Figure what out?” From what she could tell, there was a list.
“Your life. And how it relates to mine.”
Her heart stuttered then thudded. He couldn’t have meant that romantically. And if he had, she should be scared. But she wasn’t scared. She felt safe with Troy. The only scary part was that she wanted to keep feeling this way.
Eleven
Mila had fallen asleep in Troy’s arms. And he’d held her as long as he dared before carrying her to her bed and covering her with a quilt then letting himself out of her apartment. He’d stolen a couple of extra cookies, which he now savored with a cup of coffee at the island in his kitchen.
Drake had heard Troy arrive and cried out from his crib, so he was now settled in his high chair pretending to eat cereal rounds.
“Sorry about this, bud,” Troy said conversationally as he booted up his laptop to check a video he’d taken from backstage. “But you’re too young for cookies.”
“Bah,” said Drake.
“I can’t disagree with that.” Troy clicked the play icon, watching closely as the man who called himself Jack made his way toward the stage at last night’s performance.
“Bah, bah,” said Drake, slapping his hand on the plastic tray hard enough to rattle the brackets.
“Maybe when you’re older,” said Troy, popping the final bite of cookie into his mouth. “If Auntie Mila is still around, she might bake you cookies.”
As he said the words, Troy realized that Mila wouldn’t be around to bake cookies for Drake or anyone else. Before long, she’d realize Troy was never going to give in and hire her, and she’d walk out the door.
He swallowed. The thought that she’d never forgive him left a hollow spot in his chest.
Drake let out a squeal.
“Shh.” Troy put his finger to his lips. “You’ll wake your mommy.”
Then he paused, searching his memory, realizing he couldn’t recall Kassidy ever referring to herself as “Mommy.” She called Mila “Auntie Mila.” But she used her own first name with Drake.
Was she struggling with the title? Was she planning to change it later? Drake deserved to have a mommy. He also deserved to have a daddy. But there wasn’t anything Troy could do about that. Kassidy’s career was all encompassing, and there was no sign of a boyfriend on the horizon.
He was forced to wonder all over again about Kassidy’s decision. Was it too late to back out of the adoption? Might she reconsider? Of all people, Kassidy should have an appreciation for a stable family life. Theirs had been anything but.
He remembered their little house on Appleberry Street, the attic that had been converted into two bedrooms. At seven years old, Kassidy had been short enough to stand up in hers, but Troy had gotten dressed every day for high school slouched over.
Their father was always away. Kassidy’s mother was off in her own world, making amateurish clay pots or writing rambling letters to the government about some perceived injustice or the other. Troy had bolted from that dysfunctional home before his graduation cap hit the ground.
