“There should be some basic supplies here. I had my housekeeper bring in a few things the day we arrived.”
“Cool. Come on.” I jump up and throw a Train tee over my head, grab a pair of black lacy panties out of my bag and pull them on and walk out the door of his bedroom without looking back. “Get your lazy ass up, Nash!” I yell over my shoulder.
“Are you always such a nag?” He yells back.
“Yes!”
I hear him laughing as I reach the kitchen and pull out what I need for French toast and bacon.
He pads into the kitchen, barefoot and bare chested, in just jeans with the top button left undone.
My God, he’s delicious.
He smiles smugly as I look him up and down. “Like what you see, sugar?”
“You’re okay.” I shrug, smirk, and pull four slices of bread from the loaf.
“Don’t stroke my ego or anything.” He laughs and pulls the orange juice from the fridge, pours us each a glass, and leans against the countertop, watching me bustle about his kitchen.
“Your ego doesn’t need more stroking. You know you’re hot.”
He just shrugs and sips his juice. “It means something when you say it.”
When breakfast is finished, we carry our plates and juice outside onto the patio. There are more clouds in the sky today and the air is not quite as warm.
“I think it’s going to rain today,” Leo comments and takes a big bite of his toast. “God, this is good. Where did you learn to cook?”
“Mom and dad both cook really well.” I shrug and take a bite of bacon. “They made us all learn. Earning our keep, I believe mom called it.”
He stops eating and frowns for a moment before taking another bite of toast.
“What?” I ask.
“What what?”
“What made you frown?”
He swallows and lowers his fork to his plate, a crease between his eyebrows. “My mom used to say that too.”
He’s quiet for a while, staring at his food.
“Do you want to talk about them?” I ask quietly.
He shrugs and then exhales hard. “It’s weird, the things that trigger a memory.”
“How old were you when you lost them?” I ask.
“Twelve. Fucking car accident.”
I nod. I knew that from Meg. “What was your mom like?”
“She was so funny.” He laughs and smiles at me. “Seriously funny. I remember laughing with her a lot, the way you and I do.”
“And your dad?” I ask with a grin.
“Dad was fun too. He was the musician. He taught me to play the guitar and piano by the time I was six.”
“Wow, that’s amazing.”
“I preferred the guitar. Still do.” He shrugs and his eyes sober. “We listened to Bob Dylan for hours on end. Dad had good taste in music.”
“What about your mom? What kind of music did she like?” I love that he’s talking about his family. I have a feeling it doesn’t happen often.
“She liked pop music. We listened to a lot of radio in the car. She had a beautiful voice.” He frowns again and I just want to scoop him up and hold him close. It breaks my heart that he lost those wonderful people.
“I’m sorry you lost them,” I whisper.
“Me too.”
“Do you have photos?”
“Yeah, in one of the bedrooms. When they died, all of their belongings went into a storage unit until I turned eighteen. I also got their insurance money at eighteen. So, I packed up all of their personal stuff, sold or gave the furniture away, and I’ve just kept all of their things in the boxes.”
“You’ve never gone through them?” I ask, surprised.
“No.”
“Not even to find some photos or birth certificates or something?”
“No,” he shakes his head and his sad gaze finds mine. “It always felt like an invasion of their privacy.”
Poor man. “They would want you to do that.” I tell him with confidence.
“Some day, maybe.” He shrugs and then stands. “Come on, you’ve eaten. Let’s shower.”
I know the subject is closed. My heart is full and warm knowing that he shared something so personal and sacred with me. We’ve come a long way in the past few days.
We work together cleaning up from breakfast and he takes my hand and leads me up the stairs toward the master suite.
“Is your favorite color white?” I ask.
“No, why?”
“It’s really white in here.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “You’re dying to redecorate the place, aren’t you?”
“Something needs to be done with it.”
“I like your place,” he comments and turns the water on in the walk-in shower, adjusting the temperature.
“You do?” I’m surprised. “You don’t think it’s too girly?”
“At first I did,” he admits with a grin. “But it’s really homey. Comfortable.”
That’s the best compliment anyone could pay me about my home. That’s exactly how I want it to feel.
I’m smiling widely at him, still fully dressed, as he shucks his jeans and pulls towels out for us. He turns to find me watching him and offers me a half-smile.
“What is going through that gorgeous brain of yours?”
“Nothing.” I shrug, the smile still firmly on my face.
“No, that smile is not nothing. What are you so happy about?” He asks, wrapping his arms around me.
“You,” I tell him simply and kiss his chin. “You make me happy.”
“Good, that’s the goal.” He pulls my shirt over my head and slips my panties down my legs. “Now let’s make you clean.”
He leads me into the shower, wets a rag and lathers it up with my body wash and begins to wash me, massaging my muscles.
Pampering me.
“God, that feels good. You have good hands.” I lean into him and close my eyes.
“They like touching you,” he murmurs and spins me so my back is to him and he can wash and rub my back side.
“Seriously, if this music thing doesn’t work out for you, I’ll hire you to be my massage therapist.”