One is a Promise(41)

I move my feet, taking in every detail of the penthouse. Most surfaces have a cement or stainless steel finish. Copper fixtures hang from the loft ceilings, and little silver rivets run like stitching along the walls.

With all the metallic pipes, concrete, and structural joints shining through, the space should feel cold and uninviting. But it’s not. The furniture is dark and chunky and plush. Richly colored rugs cover the wide-plank ebony flooring. Thick drapes frame the multistory wall of windows in sections. Jesus, those curtains must be forty-feet long.

There’s a lot of brick—the walls, the fireplace, the base of the massive kitchen island. Overhead, skylights glow with sunlight between the splintery wood beams. And like his office, there are no photos or personal keepsakes. His parents are dead, yet there isn’t a sign of their life together displayed anywhere in this room. Maybe I’m the only one who needs a shrine of pictures to cope with grief?

“Do you have siblings?” I approach the couch, stopping a few feet in front of him, locked in eye contact.

“I’m an only child.”

Is that why he’s so rigid? He never learned how to share or play with others?

His black pants are starched to crispness, even after squeezing in and out of the Midget. Who irons his clothes? A butler? A maid? Whatever woman slept over the night before?

Stop it, Danni.

“Sit.” He pats the cushion beside him.

“If you talk to me like a dog, I might crawl onto your lap and lick your face.”

He holds his arms out, as if welcoming my threat.

Baffling, volatile man.

I’m reminded of our scorching kiss and how much I already miss the feel of his velvety lips. But the cold shoulder I received immediately after he stuck his tongue down my throat prompts me to choose the spot beside him.

“I didn’t take you for a Bud Light guy.” I reach for the beer.

“I’m not.” He sips from his bottle and makes a face. “But you like it.”

How did he—? Oh, right. I was drinking beer the first night he came to my house.

His attention detail is uncanny. And creepy. And kind of endearing.

“You stocked your fridge,” I say, running a hand through my tangled hair, “knowing I’d come here?”

“Yes.” A devious flicker dances in his eyes.

Before I can question him further, the elevator dings.

Three servers bustle out, dressed in suits and carrying trays of domed platters. I stand, and Trace joins me.

“People can come and go,” I whisper, “right into your penthouse?”

“I can lock the elevator with the push of a button.” He moves toward the kitchen. “I hope you like Moroccan cuisine.”

“I do.” Suspicion narrows my gaze. “When did you order food?”

“At the homeless shelter, when you sent me outside.”

The servers leave as quietly and quickly as they arrived, and I recognize one of them from Bissara.

When the elevator shuts, I turn to Trace. “This is the fine dining cuisine you’ll be serving in the new restaurant?”

“Yes. A few samples of the dishes.” He extends an arm toward the platters. “Dig in. You haven’t eaten all day.”

The rich scent of spices permeates the room, an infusion of lemon, cinnamon, ginger, and cloves. My mouth waters as we pile our plates with zaalouk, couscous, beef, lamb, anchovy, and unleavened pan-fried bread.

I follow him back to the couch, balancing the heavy dish in my hands. “I think I need a bigger plate.”

“Or a bigger stomach.”

“Oh, no. I’ll eat all of this. Watch and learn.”

I moan and hum throughout the meal without a single decipherable word. Fuck me, it’s good. Better than good. The old Bissara wouldn’t have been able to compete with this.

When the last crumb is scraped from my plate, I lean back and attempt to untangle the knots in my hair. Nothing’s taming this shit without a brush.

“Did you hire a new chef?” I ask.

“I brought in a New York chef to design the cuisine and teach the existing chef how to prepare it.”

“Wow. That’s…really nice of you. I’m sure the Bissara chef was relieved to keep his job.”

“He kept his job because he works for next to nothing. I’m running a business, Danni, and I make decisions based on profit. Not emotion. You’ll do well to remember that.”

“Of course.” I grit my teeth. “I almost thought of you as human for a second. My bad.”

I move to collect the dirty plates, but he beats me to it, stacking them and carrying them to the kitchen. I stay on the couch as he makes a phone call, his timbre too low to make out what he’s saying.