To the right was a very sparse, minimalist kitchen. The backsplash was white subway tile, the countertop dark gray granite. A bowl of fruit on the island and a soap dispenser at the sink were the only items to break up the continuity. The stainless steel appliances showed no trace of fingerprints. To the left was a dark wood dining table that would easily accommodate six guests. In the center a silver square planter with a single blooming orchid broke the spell of emptiness.
A black leather couch with hard angles and a set of matching chairs defined the living room. A solid wood coffee table sat atop a bloodred area rug. On the opposite wall a huge flat-screen TV dominated the space, and on either side were dark wood shelving units. Each shelf alternated between rows of books, perfectly arranged from smallest to largest, and decorative knickknacks or photos. The images were too far away for me to make out the faces. I recognized a few items Hayden had chosen from my time with him in the basement of Serendipity. It seemed so long ago, but it had only been weeks. Back then I never entertained the notion that I would be here, in his home.
Beyond the living area was what looked to be a drafting table, like the ones architects use. The space was delineated with a box shelf, which housed more books and several red fabric bins, the contents hidden from view. The cool colors and the uniformity were both calming and masculine.
The condo wasn’t at all what I’d expected. I’d envisioned some kind of anarchist retreat, including a wall of angry graffiti. Instead it felt like I walked into the pages of a modern magazine.
Spanning the wall behind the couch, perfectly spaced out, were three framed works of art. The two on either end clearly belonged to Chris and Jamie, but the one in the middle was Hayden’s creation. Detailed and vibrant, the art almost looked like a photograph. It was a perfect replica of my tattoo on my body. The rendering held me in an incredibly flattering light.
“I, uh . . .” Hayden cleared his throat. “I just put that up the other day.”
“You don’t see enough of me so you thought you’d hang me on your wall, too?”
Hayden stood at the edge of the room, hands shoved in his pockets. “Something like that.”
“It’s beautiful.” His mood was difficult to track. Inviting me into his space was like giving me a look inside his head. Hayden kept such tight control over everything in his life: his work, his home, his emotions. I seemed to be the exception to that rule.
“That’s because it’s you.” His smile was shy. “Can I get you something to drink? I have beer, red wine, scotch. I think I might have stuff to make a girlie drink if you want.”
“Wine would be nice.” I moved away from the drawing and followed him into the kitchen. “Do you have a housekeeper or something?”
He eyed me like the notion was absurd. “I’m good at keeping things organized. I don’t need someone else to do that for me.”
“Are you taking a shot at my housekeeping skills?”
“I can’t take a shot at something you don’t have.”
Insulted by the insinuation that I wasn’t tidy enough, I circled his kitchen, opening cupboards and drawers while he poured drinks.
“What are you looking for?”
“Where’s your junk drawer?”
“My what?” He swirled his scotch, amused.
It was a strange contradiction, seeing this man, so unnervingly beautiful, sipping scotch in the most immaculate kitchen I’d ever stepped foot in.
“Your junk drawer. You know, the place where you put all the stuff you don’t know what to do with.” When he just stared at me, I provided a few examples. “Elastic bands, twist ties, masking tape, spare pens, those kinds of things.”
“Open the drawer to your left.”
I was sorely disappointed by what I found. An organizer had been dropped into it, each compartment labeled according to the items it housed. In my world, most people tossed those random items into a catch-all drawer. At least that was what I grew up with. Even Connor, whose family had employed a live-in housekeeper, had a junk drawer.
“This is too organized. It doesn’t qualify.”
“I like organized. Clutter stresses me out.”
“I never would have guessed,” I replied.
My place was perpetually lived in. He was always tidying up after me. Now I understood his compulsion. In comparison to his, my apartment looked like a bomb had gone off in it.
“Are you done snooping?”
“For now. Did you want to show me where you sleep?”
“Sure.”
At the end of the hall, he opened a door and hit the light switch. Hayden’s bedroom retained the same masculine minimalist bent as the rest of his place. A king-sized bed was set against a midnight blue wall, the heavy dark wood frame complemented by a dresser and a nightstand in the same modern style. The slate gray duvet was turned down, navy sheets pulled tight, matching pillows propped against the headboard. There were signs of life in here; books stacked neatly on the nightstand, a digital clock, and a lamp with a dark shade.
There was more art on the walls, all of which reflected abject sensuality. A trio of photographs depicted various female body parts—the curvy silhouette of a woman’s torso, the line of her neck, the swell of a hip draped in red satin.
“Lisa took those,” Hayden said, his fingers drifting down my spine.
“Is it someone you know?”