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When we arrived at Graeme’s home in Lincoln Park, Deacon had me stay in the car since, if he took me in, he was certain we would never get out. Between talking to everyone and Gigi wanting to get to know me, he knew that would be our day. I was honestly surprised that he got in and out so quickly, reappearing with a large duffel that he threw into the trunk.

“No one cared you were leaving?”

“Graeme is gone already, and everyone else, surprisingly, is still sleeping. Even the kids. It was probably all the sugar.”

“No, even if the girls both had two puffs, there still wasn’t—why are you laughing?”

I was horrified to learn that all the cream puffs had been consumed the night before.

“It’s not your fault.” He took hold of my scarf, which was tied at my throat, and eased me forward so he could kiss me briefly.

I forgot what we’d been talking about, and as I stared at him, he smiled at me.

“You look really out of it,” he said hoarsely, grinning at me.

“What?”

He chuckled. “Let’s get you some breakfast.”

“Keeping in mind, I don’t eat meat or eggs.”

“Then I think you’re gonna have to suggest someplace.”

“I know the perfect one.”

He did not like the look of the Mediterranean kitchen I walked him into. Even with it being busy, even waiting for a table, and with them bringing us Turkish coffee, his scowl looked permanent. There was only a slight thaw when they brought syrup for his pancakes, but once he found out it wasn’t maple, his brows furrowed once more.

But small plates arrived, and even though the dishes were all plant-based, he tried them and liked some, not all. When his multigrain pancakes arrived, he was skeptical, but he really enjoyed them, along with his omelet.

“So it’s fine if I have eggs?”

“Yes, love,” I told him. “I will make you whatever you like.”

“But I’d rather have you make something for both of us. Once I start working, I can eat meat for lunch.”

“What will you be doing?”

He explained about the idea Gigi had helped him flesh out, about building places for omegas to live and learn a trade and be given ongoing education.

“Well, for the building part, if you want, you can speak to my father. He’s a builder. He’s planned many communities, and he and my mother will be moving back after the holidays.”

“Really? I would love to talk to your father about this.”

“Good.”

“What kind of syrup is this again?”

“It’s made from dates.”

“It’s not terrible.”

He wasn’t fooling me at all. Because yes, he was grouchy on the outside, but he had a big gooey center.

An hour later, as I stood in his apartment down on North Harbor Drive, I was conscious that my mouth was open, and I kept closing it, but moments later, it would be agape again.

“What?” he asked, walking through to the kitchen.

The only colors I could see were white and gray. And the spots of gray were the floors, which were that high-end laminate that looked like wood but wasn’t. But all the rest, everywhere, was white. The quartz countertops were white with sparkles of some other stone. The backsplash in the kitchen—subway tile in white. And the interior of the shower—more subway tile, all glaring, in-your-face, white. It was larger than my house at, I was guessing, maybe twenty-two hundred square feet, and the views outside were stunning if you liked to look at water and not trees. I was a tree person. I also like birds and squirrels, which was why I fed both all winter. Deacon would have been able to see gray water and fireworks. That was all. I wasn’t a big fan of either.