Gen laughed, her heart a bit lighter. “Me, too.” She poured two glasses of Chianti and sat down to eat. Wolfe bent his head and closed his eyes. She watched in fascination at the humble act of honoring his food. When he grabbed a biscuit and slathered butter on it, he caught her staring.
“What?”
“I never noticed you saying grace before.”
A tinge of red flushed his cheeks. Another thing she loved about him. Big and bad, playboy millionaire, with a tendency to blush. Did it get any better than that? “Mama Conte always said every meal is a gift. There was a time in my life I had to scramble for food on a daily basis. I ate from the garbage a lot. After eating home-cooked meals awhile, it didn’t take much to give thanks for getting out of the shit that was my life.”
Her heart tugged, but she concentrated on her food, knowing this was a delicate line. Gen knew little about his past, and the pinky promise they had shared solidified his intent to keep it that way. There was a darkness he carried with him she was always aware of. She regularly let him know she was willing to listen and be a friend if he ever wanted to talk. He’d nod, thank her, and remain silent.
Gen took a leap and asked for more. “How long did you have to live like that?”
He scraped his fork across the plate. “Five years. I left home when I was fourteen.”
Yes, he’d been about nineteen when Sawyer took him in. Twenty when he and Gen had met. “Was it because of your mother? And the drugs? Is that why you had to run?”
He took a sip of his wine and avoided her gaze. “Partly.”
She pushed a bit more. “No foster care? I can’t imagine how you survived on the streets at that age. How brave you must have been.”
His hand clenched around his glass. Self-disgust and a deep loathing suddenly flashed in his beautiful blue eyes. Shocked, Gen held still, afraid to speak or say anything further.
“Never think I was brave, Gen. Never. I did what had to be done.”
Her heart cracked open and bled. Her voice caught. “Wolfe—”
“When did you learn to cook like this?” He grabbed a handful of brussels sprouts and popped one into his mouth. “These aren’t half-bad.”
The wall slammed down. Question-and-answer time was officially over. Gen struggled to get back on firm ground. “Umm, David insisted I know how to cook well. Said it was important for a wife and mother to know.”
“You’re gonna be a surgeon with enough money to hire someone to cook for you. Bet asshole never put the same standards on himself.”
Her lips twitched. “No, he didn’t. I was resentful for a while, but then a strange thing happened. I began to like it. Cooking is creative, but also scientific. Following a recipe to gain a particular product was soothing.”
“Feel free to continue having fun on my account.”
She arched a brow. “Oh, not just me. You’re going to learn a few things while you’re here. It’ll be good for you.”
He groaned. “Should’ve known you’d try to torture me. Listen, we’ll have to go over the schedule. Make sure we mesh.”
Confusion made her frown. “My work schedule is simple enough. I’ll post my shifts, and I already know you work around the clock. You can just text me when you’ll be home for dinner and stuff. Won’t be too hard.”
He rolled his eyes. “I couldn’t care less about work. I’m talking TV. The remote. Who gets what and when. And don’t think I’ll be tortured with those crappy reality shows you try and sneak in. The Bachelor? Hell’s Kitchen? You should be embarrassed.”
She threw a brussels sprout at him. He yelped as it bounced off his rock-hard chest. “Screw you. Anyway, Bachelor doesn’t start a new season for two more weeks. They’re finishing up Dancing with the Stars.”
“You can DVR it.”
“I don’t think so! I’m not getting tortured with your stupid Searching for Bigfoot or Paranormal whatever. They never find a beast or a ghost. You need help.”
He scowled. “They find plenty of evidence. You gotta stop watching junk food for television. Broaden your horizons.”
“I have. I checked out Scandal and love it. It’s all about Washington, D.C., and politics.”
He rubbed his face with disgust. “I just died and went to hell. Seriously.”
“Hope they have good programming in hell,” she chirped, scooping up a sprout and popping it into her mouth. “Or at least DVR.”
They continued the argument over cleanup, hanging his wardrobe in the closet and fussing over cabinet space in the bathroom. She gave him the new comforter set she’d purchased with a brand-new pillow and helped him make up the couch. Damn, it was short. Those long legs of his might get uncomfortable. A twinge of guilt caught her.