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His lips curl upward. A full smile.
It lights up his expression. Brightens the room. The house.
For one perfect moment, the world is a place full of love and joy. Then Adam blinks and his smile disappears.
I miss it instantly.
"It's true," I say. "Rich people are always strange."
"Used to getting our way?"
"Yes. And unaware of the hoi polloi."
"Is that how I seem?"
"A little." I take a long sip.
"A little…"
"A little out of touch. But I don't blame you. If I lost my brother… I'd lock myself from the world too."
Adam barely frowns, but I still feel the change in energy.
I miss his smile. His laugh. His potential for joy.
"I'm sorry," I say. "I shouldn't… I shouldn't bring that up."
"No. It's why you're here. You don't need to pretend it didn't happen."
"I am sorry. That you lost your brother."
"Thank you."
I take another sip. Try to find something to say. I don't want to be one of those obnoxious people who makes someone's grief about me.
Who fills the silence with bullshit platitudes.
"You've mostly stayed here," I say. "Since then."
He nods.
"Is there a reason?"
"It's easier."
Right. Of course. There are so many rumors about the accident. If he went out, he'd have to hear the whispers. Endure the stares. "Your brothers?"
"Liam and Simon."
"You said they worry. Do they visit?"
"At first, all the time. Now, on occasion. Liam likes to pop in. He will, if he gets word you're living here."
"You didn't tell him?"
"Not yet."
My eyes meet his. "Will he be surprised?"
"Yes."
Adam really is the king of short answers.
"I don't date often," he says.
"Any reason?"
"I work too much. It wouldn't be fair."
"Now?"
"I'm taking the time." He doesn't add and I'm paying you a million dollars, that sounds fair.
But it still fills the room.
Fuck, this is awkward.
Thankfully, Trish arrives with dinner. A seared white fish and sauteed root vegetables. Tiny bowls of salad. Not like the salad from this afternoon. Arugula, sunflower seeds, long slices of carrots and parsnips, fresh herbs.
Is that dill?
I'm not sure I've ever seen dill in person.
"I hope you'll forgive me for serving the first two courses together." She sets both plates in front of me then does the same for Adam.
"No. I'm starving. Thank you, Trish," I say.
She beams. "You're very welcome, Danielle. It's nice to have someone so polite here." She shoots Adam a knowing look.
He almost smiles. "I'm at the table."
"Today." She shakes her head he really is difficult and exits through the kitchen door.
The scents of citrus, olive oil, and fresh herbs fill the room. I didn't know food could smell this good.
What's the rule about dinner ware? Inside to outside or outside to inside?
I watch Adam pick up the outside fork. Do the same. Taste the salad.
Mmm. Long strips of carrots and zucchini, dollops of hummus, olive oil, and lemon. Everything crisp and fresh.
Adam watches me taste the food. "How do you like it?"
I chew and swallow. "Perfect. Thank you." And this is exactly what I like. Am I obvious? Or did he find that while digging? "How did you know I'd like it?"
"I didn't."
"You didn't research my preferences?"
"Where would I find those?" he asks.
"I'm not the one who owns a tech company."
"Hypothetically?" He takes a slow bite, chews, swallows.
Maybe I'm not as unique as I want to believe. Maybe this is what he serves all his guests. "Sure. Hypothetically."
"I'd go through your social media accounts. See if you post pictures of food."
Right. That's obvious.
"Check which restaurants you like and follow."
That too.
"Or I could access your takeout apps. See what you order."
That would do it. "You didn't serve curry."
"Should I?"
"No."
"You don't like it?"
"You don't know?" I ask.
"No." He takes another bite. "But I can find out."
"By checking my order history?"
"Asking you."
"Oh." My cheeks flush. "Right. That would be the easiest way."
He half-smiles.
My heart thuds against my chest. It's such a nice smile. It lights up the room. "I do. Like curry. More Thai than Indian, but my family isn't from India. You probably know that. But my mom was from the Caribbean. People assume, but I don't know anything about India." I swallow another sip of wine. "I like anything spicy."
His eyes stay fixed on me. Not tearing apart, just watching carefully.
I take another bite. Mmm. Dill and lemon and arugula. "Does that say something about me?"
"People who like spicy food have higher pain tolerances."
Ah. That explains that.
"They're usually risk takers."
"What about you?"
"What about me?"
"Do you like spicy foods?"
"I do." His eyes meet mine. "And I drink my coffee black. You prefer almond milk and honey."
"How did you—"
"Louis."
Oh. Right.
"People who like bitter foods are more likely to be psychopaths. Or sadists."
My cheeks flush at the thought of his palm on my ass. "We're a good match then. A masochist and a sadist."
He actually smiles. "Is that where you go first?"
"Of course."
"Is it true?" His gaze travels down my body. "Do you like being hurt?"
