Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 105175 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105175 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 526(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
“It must have taken you forever to build this,” I say as he leads me past the foyer and into the streamlined kitchen.
He glances back at me with a smooth smile. “I can’t take the credit. The previous owner was an architect.”
“Well they had great taste.”
He nods and tells me to make myself comfortable while he goes to change out of his golf clothes.
I take a seat on one of his kitchen barstools just long enough to hear him close a door somewhere in another part of the house. Then I hop up and snoop around as much as I can. I’m not stupid enough to wander far; the place is a maze and I didn’t bring any breadcrumbs to lead me back to the kitchen. I play it safe by peeking my head into nearby rooms. There’s a formal dining room, office, some sort of sitting area, and an expansive living room—at least, I think that’s what it is. It’s hard to tell any of the rooms apart because most of them are empty.
At first, I think it’s a fluke, or even some kind of minimalist design strategy I’m too uncultured to appreciate, but the more rooms I see, the more I realize that isn’t the case. One or two bare rooms can be written off, but they’re all bare. In one room, I stumble on a few pieces of mismatched furniture, but they aren’t arranged in any sort of thoughtful way. In fact, it looks like James just moved in and only brought a few items with him from his old place. Framed photos and paintings sit against the wall of a sitting room, waiting to be hung. A mismatched chair and end table sit in one corner underneath a floor lamp. An open paperback rests on the table, flipped on its face.
The vignette is so depressing that I turn on my heel and book it back to the kitchen before I see anything worse, like a room full of discarded frozen dinners for one. Unfortunately, James is back before I am, pouring a finger’s worth of amber-colored liquor into a glass tumbler.
I blush at having been caught nosing around his house and grapple for the first excuse that comes to mind. “Just looking for a bathroom.”
His brow arches, but he doesn’t look up. “Find one?”
“Mhmm.”
“Good,” he says, pushing the tumbler across the gleaming white kitchen island then pouring one for himself. “I hope you like Maker’s Mark. It’s all I have.”
I hate it, in fact, but I’m not going to admit that. I reach for the drink and down a long swallow, hissing as it burns my throat.
He laughs. “Yeah, sorry. It was a gift, and I don’t have anything better—I don’t really drink unless I’m at the club or a social event.”
“Or after a near-death experience,” I choke out, trying not to wheeze at the aftertaste.
I’m sure people who enjoy drinking alcohol straight are very cool and badass, but I like my alcohol diluted and masked to oblivion. In fact, just give me the soda.
“You okay? Do you want something else?”
“It’s fine. I just usually mix it with something,” I admit sheepishly.
He turns to his industrial refrigerator and pulls open the door to check inside. I, of course, pop up on my toes to peer over his shoulder. There are a few takeout cartons, a half-full bottle of white wine, and the requisite condiments like ketchup and mustard. The fare is as depressing as the art sitting on the floor in his sitting room, but at least there’s a glimmer of hope.
“I’ll take that wine,” I say, hopeful that I won’t have to finish my drink.
He chuckles. “Yeah, I wouldn’t drink that if I were you. I don’t even remember opening it. Looks like you’re stuck with the bourbon.”
Why hath God forsaken me?
He pulls the bottle out of the refrigerator and pours the contents down the sink—as sacrilegious a behavior as I’ve ever seen.
“Did you just move in?” I ask, returning my attention back to the liquor I plan on nursing.
“Maybe a year ago.”
“What?!”
My shock is out there, spilling across his kitchen along with the sip of bourbon I spit out. I wipe it away with the sleeve of my shirt before he turns back to me.
“I guess it’s been a year and a few months, actually.”
No. That doesn’t make sense.
I turn back to the empty rooms behind me. “But what about your stuff?”
“The furniture? Yeah, I’ve been meaning to get around to that.”
“And the artwork…”
“I haven’t decided where I should hang it.”
He says it like it all makes sense, and maybe it does. Maybe I’m the weird one.
I turn back to his kitchen and see the pieces of his life I missed before. On top of a thick slab of Carrera marble there are paper plates and solo cups. The glasses and china you might expect to find in a house like this are in the custom cabinets, but they’re still bubble wrapped.