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“I always thought when I was in a position to own a home, it would have a huge kitchen. Like the kitchen itself would be the selling point of the house.”
He was silent for a moment, and then he asked, “What was your home like, growing up?”
“A lot like this place, actually.” I looked at him and smiled. “Modest.”
“What happened to it?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, your dad passed. You got the building that’s become your bakery, but that was his workshop. What happened to his home?”
“Sold it,” I admitted. “It wasn’t worth a ton, but it covered the rest of my culinary school loans.” I looked at our clasped hands. “I figured that because the building was zoned for both commercial and residential, I could turn it into a small living space, funnel everything I made back into the business. The house was just—well, it would’ve gone to waste. And I couldn’t live there. Not after he died, I mean.”
He squeezed my fingers. “You thought it all through.”
I shook my head. “Not really. I was just making decisions, but you don’t really see clearly when you’re—”
“Mourning.”
I glanced at him, his eyes appearing as though he were lost in some place far away. Somewhere in the past maybe. “Mourning. Yeah. Anger runs its course pretty fast and then it’s over. But grief? Jesus. It’s like this dark, heavy cloud that lingers forever. Every now and again the sun pokes through, but…”
“What was he like? Your old man?”
“Wonderful,” I said with a teary laugh. “Just the best father I could’ve ever hoped for. Never bitter. I asked him once why Mom leaving didn’t destroy him, turn him into someone awful and mean. He looked at me and said, ‘Darlin’,she left the best part of herself with me.’”
“Did he ever meet anyone else?”
“Why all the questions about my father?” I demanded.
“Just trying to get an idea about who he was.”
I nodded slowly. “No, he never met anyone else. Spent all his time protecting me. He was a big softie where I was concerned. Scared the shit out of my boyfriends, though. He was the shotgun-on-the-porch, have-her-home-at-nine type of dad.”
“Boyfriends?” Slash huffed.
I sniggered. “High school, Slash. Just high school boys. Dad never met any of the men I dated in New York. They never lasted long.”
“Why not?” he inquired.
“My schedule, mostly,” I admitted. “I worked all the time.”
Slash untangled his fingers from mine and then got up off the floor, cursing as he did.
I laughed.
“What?” He reached down to help me stand.
“You sounded forty-three just then,” I teased.
He wrapped an arm around my shoulder and hauled me into his side. “Brat.”
“Slash?”
“Yeah?”
“What are we going to do about furniture?” I asked.
“Buy some.”
