I laughed as I straightened up. “I wasn’t sure if it was real or not. This kitchen could be a movie set, it’s so perfect.”
“Thanks.” He went over to the big white sink and washed his hands. “It was quite a project, but I’m happy with the way it came out.”
“Did you do it yourself?” I asked, impressed.
“Most of it.” He rinsed the soap from his hands and dried them with a towel that had been folded on the counter. “Which was probably why it took so long, but I never trust anyone to do a good enough job. I’m a little bit of a control freak.”
I nodded. Ellen had said that exact same thing while we were waiting for him to arrive at the bar, but I didn’t think I should mention it. “Could I use the bathroom, please?”
“Sure. It’s right over there.” He pointed toward a door off the back hall.
“Thanks. Be right back.”
I went into the bathroom, pulled the door shut, and looked at myself in the mirror a moment, trying to imagine what someone like Derek saw when he looked at me. It wasn’t terribly encouraging. My hair was messy. My eyes were bloodshot. My face had the pale, sallow look of someone who hasn’t slept or eaten well in a couple days.
And my heart was beating faster than normal.
Good thing he couldn’t see that.
Five
DEREK
He seemed so young.
Maybe it was just because he’d needed rescuing tonight. But even beyond that, there was something youthful and endearing about him. The way he’d stared out the car window at those crumbling old theaters. The excitement in his voice when he talked about coming to California. The way he wasn’t being a dick about his bag being stolen at the bar. It made me feel bad that I’d grumbled so much about helping him out. Poor guy—what shitty luck he’d had, getting robbed when he’d barely gotten off the plane. He had to be exhausted as well as hot.
Hungry. I meant hungry.
Not that he wasn’t attractive. A person would have to be blind not to appreciate the perfect symmetry of his features. The vivid hue of his eyes. The chiseled jaw. It was an objective fact: as human beings go, he was nice to look at. No harm in admitting that. Nothing sinful about it. And as someone who was fitness conscious, I could see that he kept himself in good shape and appreciate the work it took. I didn’t have to feel bad about it.
Frowning, I concentrated on seasoning the strip steak I’d taken out of the fridge for him. I heated some oil in a pan, and when it was ready, I threw the steak on. It sizzled noisily.
I wondered how old he actually was. What he did for a living back in Russia. Whether he was single. How long he’d be here. What it was about life there that made him want to escape. The weather? The economy? The politics? I hadn’t been this curious about someone in a long time.
From around the corner, I heard the toilet flush and the sink turn on.
It felt a little strange to be alone in my house with another man. I liked to entertain and had friends over for movie nights or dinner parties pretty often, but I couldn’t think of one time it had just been me and another guy here hanging out. Most of my good friends were married now, and had been since I’d bought the house. I’d never even had a woman sleep over. Gabrielle and I had split before I got the keys.
I’d actually been on the verge of proposing when she’d seemed to snap, suddenly convinced I didn’t really love her. Of course, she didn’t see it as sudden—she claimed there had been distance between us for months, and she couldn’t ignore it any longer.
Fragments of our final argument pummeled my brain like a hailstorm—her demands and accusations, my questions and pleas, and then finally, the sad dissolution.
Be honest for once.
Why are you doing this?
You don’t want me.
Don’t throw this away.
There’s nothing real here.
What do you want?
I want more.
I’ve got nothing more to give you.
I tried to fix it, tried to make myself into the man she wanted, tried to feel the things I was supposed to feel. In the end, I was numb. Exhausted. Empty.
Next time, I’d do better.
Frowning, I recalled the earlier disaster with Carolyn. She hadn’t seemed too bothered by it, but I was. There had to be something I could do to create some chemistry, but what? I went to the fridge and started pulling out ingredients for a salad—lettuce, tomato, cucumber, carrots, radishes. While I was slicing the tomato, Maxim came back into the kitchen, inhaling deeply.
“That smells so good. My mouth is watering.”
“Hope steak is okay.” I placed some greens on a dinner plate, added the tomato slices, and started slicing a radish. “I had one thawed out I was going to make for dinner tonight but I ended up going out.”
“I’d probably eat the plate you put it on, I’m so hungry, but yes. I love steak. This is so nice of you.”
I met his eyes only briefly and looked down at the cutting board again. Fuck. That blue. “I don’t mind. I like to cook.”
“I’m starting to feel glad my ride didn’t show up at the airport to get me. I would not be eating so well if he had.”
I finished the salad and turned the steak over. “So he just didn’t show?”
He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. But I’m hoping it was only a miscommunication. Hey, could I charge my phone?”
“Yeah. I have a charger right there on the counter.” I pointed to where I meant, and he took his phone from his pocket and plugged it in.
“Thanks. I can’t believe I forgot mine.”
“It happens.” I noticed he was looking over my shoulder into the dining room, a curious look on his face. “Go on. You can look around if you want.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to be too forward. But your house is so nice.”
“I’m sure. And thank you.” I grabbed a bottle of wine from the small fridge under the counter. “I decided to have a glass of wine. Would you like one?”
“No, thanks. I’m not much of a wine drinker.”
“Something else?” I asked, pulling the corkscrew from a drawer. “Vodka?”
“I’m not really a vodka drinker either.”
“I thought everyone drank vodka in Russia.” I took a glass down from the cupboard and winced. “Sorry. That’s probably a stereotype.”
But he smiled. “Plenty of Russians drink vodka. It might be a generational thing.”
“How old are you?” I couldn’t resist asking as I yanked the cork from the bottle.
“Twenty-four.”
Twenty-four. God. I poured a lot of wine into my glass. A lot.
“I take it you’re a wine drinker?” he asked.
“Sometimes. I like whiskey too.” I set the bottle down and took the steak off the heat. “Go on and look around. This will be ready in a few minutes.”
He disappeared into the dining room, and I took a good, long drink.
Six
MAXIM