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Chapter 13
♥?♥?♥
Paula
OTHER THAN STRETCHING FIVE TO FIFTEEN, Bastian kept to his word to the end. Giving her plenty of space, he showed her around a gleaming condo that gave her chills with its impersonal atmosphere.
In his medicine cabinet she spotted his allergy medicine, antihistamines along with an injection pen. The fact that it was one of the few personal touches made her a little sad.
His bathroom looked more or less exactly like hers, and also his kitchen, with the same marble countertops, kitchen island, and cherry cabinets that were in hers. Judging by the barren state of the shelves, he cooked as little as she did.
“Sure you don’t want anything to eat?” He rustled the white bag.
“I’m sure. You go ahead.”
She was almost certain he hadn’t eaten anything since lunch. But instead of opening up the bag, he stashed it away on an empty shelf in the fridge. That appliance wasnotstuffed with leftovers from restaurants the way hers was.
“How do you generally eat?”
“I have meals delivered wherever I happen to be that day.”
“Personal chef, snazzy.”
He didn’t deny it. “Or I make something quick, a sandwich or a salad, and take it with me. I’m on the go a lot. What?”
“You say that, but this kitchen doesn’t look like it sees any action…oh, you’re talking about your other place.”
“That’s right.” He gazed around. “It’s a lot more lived-in than this place.” He gestured to a microwave oven and an espresso machine. “There’s that.”
“Very bachelor-esque.”
“You cook?”
“Coffee is about my limit, and I don’t even like to make that,” she admitted. “Icancook. I just—prefer not to.”
“Except pie,” he said with a glint.
“Pie? Yeah, pie,” she laughed. “Aunt Elizabeth is a very special case. That day was the absolute worst, by the way. I went all out, read up on pie crust, consulted Mom, did everything perfectly. And then I forgot the eggs. I was so irate at you.”
He smiled, leaning down, then seemed to catch himself before he made contact. “Come see the living room.”
It was spotless. She trailed a finger on an exquisite antique side table, looking futilely for dust. “Let me guess, you have your own private housekeeper.”
“Not here. Here I use a service. Probably the same one you do.”
“What makes you think I use a service?”
“Did you free up all that spare time so you could spend it doing chores, Paula Raymond?”
His perceptiveness was slightly annoying. She’d beenattemptingto highlight differences between them, not similarities. “Pris’s cousin has an arrangement with the cleaning service in the building. I load a mean dishwasher, but I’m all for as little cleaning as possible.”
“Like cooking?”
“Rather like that, yes.”
At some point it hit her his condo had a nearly identical layout as hers. It only appeared more spacious because it had windows in different locations and was less cluttered. The furniture was smaller but more luxurious. “Chloe’s place is bigger than yours,” she pointed out unnecessarily.
“That’s the neighbor with the corner unit?”
