Chapter 23 Neve
TWENTY-THREE
NEVE
Faust backs the red BMW into his garage and for once, I’m speechless.
He lives in a fucking castle. I’ve driven by this entrance before on my way to Toronto but never thought much about it except it looked expensive. Now, I’m shocked.
From the quiet street, he turned into a long, winding driveway, complete with an iron gate he pressed a button for inside his car. It swung open before us, darkness dancing at the edge of his headlights.
Snow drifted along the roads and swirled with the salt to create ghostly shadows in the night. The dark stone of the small castle, the twisting turrets stabbing the sky, the quiet that seems to surround his wooded lot, it all dances in my mind.
Does anyone else know he lives in a castle?!
I even noted with amusement that there were what appears to be spider webs backlit in red along his porch, going up the black railings that bracket his pale steps.
I think of Nolan taking me trick-or-treating as a kid when Mom had to work on Halloween night and how he’d always grumble about it, but he still took me, never letting go of my hand and inspecting all of my candy.
He’d take out the pieces he thought would give me a stomach ache.
At first I assumed he wanted to eat them himself, but later, I’d always find them in the trash.
When I became a teenager, I started giving him all my candy voluntarily, save for one piece. He seemed proud of me then.
Thinking of food and the last time I ate, my stomach grumbles, but I like the sound. I know it’s wrong, and something isn’t right in my head, but it makes me feel good, to be hungry.
Faust must have noticed the noise too because he’s got the car in park and the garage door is closing—a three-car garage, no other cars inside—but I feel his gaze on the side of my face.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, his voice low in the small space between us.
There’s music playing from his speakers and it sounds like jazz, which amuses me in a good way, but it’s not enough to cut the tension between us.
I turn and meet his eye. I’ve played this game before.
“So you casually live in a castle?”
He glances down, like he’s embarrassed. “I thought you would’ve heard.” He doesn’t say it arrogantly.
I laugh out loud. “In case you forgot, I wasn’t a member of your fan club.”
“Wasn’t?” he presses, meeting my gaze with a small smirk.
“Did you buy this?” I gesture around.
He shakes his head once. “No. Inherited.”
“Must be nice,” I mutter.
“It is.” He studies my face. “Let’s eat?”
“I’m not hungry.” I click the button on my seatbelt and note the details of his garage from inside the cocoon of his tinted windows, his car engine off now.
It’s neat and tidy, only hockey sticks, duffel bags, and a net lining the row of shelves beyond his window.
When I turn my head, I see a bright red trash can that looks oddly pristine.
Never seen a red one before, but it unfortunately makes me like him more. It’s unique. It probably looks like Dracula’s can positioned at the end of his driveway on trash collection day.
“I’m a good cook,” he says softly.
The admission surprises me and I swivel my head back around to stare at him, the seatbelt threading through my fingers as it retracts.
“Really?”
He frowns, one hand on the wheel, his silver Casio watch glinting on his wrist. “Yes, really.” He says it with a hint of bite. “All kinds of food, too. I could make you anything.” The last part is softer.
My throat feels tight and I want to get out of the car but staring at him in the dark with only the dash lights to illuminate the planes of his face, I find I can’t move. Not yet.
“What’s your favorite thing to cook?”
He doesn’t skip a beat. “A meal? Sweet potato and turkey chili. But my favorite thing to make is bread.”
“From scratch?” For a heartbeat, I think he’s making a joke about money. I don’t know if he makes any or if he comes from it, but something or someone is paying for the upkeep of this place, and this car, and I doubt it’s student loans.
He lifts a brow, slow. “Yes.” He says it simply, like I’m silly for not understanding it. “Do you cook?” he asks, throwing my questions back in my face.
For the first time, I’m kind of ashamed I don’t. “Not really, no.” Mom was always too busy to teach me and Nolan was always too comfortable restricting food to put much emphasis on making it.
Faust glances at my core, and I wonder if he’s thinking about my stomach growling, and I feel myself growing hot as I shift slightly in the seat. “I can cook for you,” he offers again. “Really, anything. My fridge is always stocked.”
“I imagine you have to eat a lot with all those calories you burn on the ice.”
“I’m always hungry,” he says with a half-smile.
Which, considering my obsession, makes me curious. “How many calories do you eat a day?”
“Probably five thousand or so.”
My jaw drops, quite literally. “What?”
He lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Like I said. I can make you anything.” And with those words, I realize he’s probably speaking for himself rather than for me, which makes me feel a little better.
“Pancakes?” Guilty pleasure food, and I never ate Cynthia’s, which makes shame sit heavy on my shoulders.
“Chocolate chips?”
“I usually like them plain but—”
“Plain for you, chocolate chips for me. And they’re not coming out of a box.” He opens his door, the locks releasing on my side too as he does. “Let’s go.”
I don’t know what I expected of his place, a bachelor hockey star, but it’s not… this. The inside of his castle smells clean, and not like air freshener he just haphazardly sprays, but like a place he deep cleans regularly. And taking in the sheer size of it, that’s saying something.
Briefly, eyeing the polished coat rack, the gilded mirror in the entranceway from the garage, the art hanging on the walls, and the stone table beneath the mirror that looks like it’s used for keys—considering he set his there—I wonder if he pays someone to clean his place.
It’s just so… neat.
But it isn’t boring.
The fact the entry hall from the garage is so immaculate surprises me, too.
I think of garage entrances like backdoors; not meant for company.
But just beyond the coat rack, the mirror, and all the rest, there’s a polished wooden bench with shoe cubbies beneath it, and on the opposite wall, golden hooks lined up for coats.
He has a few hanging already, all pristine and expensive looking, and he’s got more pairs of shoes than I would have suspected.
Between him and Sylvan, he seemed like the more casual dresser.
I think that may be true, but it clearly doesn’t mean he doesn’t have style.
“You can take your shoes off there, put them wherever you want.” He nods toward the bench, and I realize he’s turning off an alarm behind me when I hear the electric beep of the keypad and turn to glance over my shoulder.
Captain of the Drayton Dragons. Castle darling. Of course he has an alarm system. He might want to consider investing in a security guard too.
I sit down on the bench and unzip my deep brown platform boots. My eyes find the art hanging opposite the mirror. It’s gorgeous, and Cyn would know what it is, but I have no idea.
A triptych, I realize. Three panels, animals and water sculptures and people, earth theme all throughout. The last panel is darker, like there’s war coming.
Interesting.
I shrug out of my coat after tucking away my boots. But before I can stand to hang it up, Faust takes it out of my hands
He doesn’t say a word as he places it on a hook by itself, then removes his own coat and hangs it next to mine.
Standing before me in an earth-toned sweater, fitted dark pants, and socks with Snoopy on them, my neck arched to meet his eyes, I feel out of my depth.
What am I doing here?
It’s not that I don’t believe I’m capable of hooking up with boys like this. I did it all the time. But a week or so ago, I didn’t know Faust Darling existed, and now I want to fuck him, unearth him, discover him.
Even though he said he wasn’t interested. My toxic trait is I want to prove him wrong.
Get yourself together, Neve.
Maybe I do need to eat. My brain seems to be starved of nutrients and common sense.
“Pancakes?” he asks softly.
“Please.” It’s the best answer I can find.
I hear his sharp intake of breath at my low word, then his throat rolls, drawing attention to his chains, and I wonder why he mixes his metals. Gold and silver, then that silver Casio watch, too. It works for him, no doubt, but it’s not common.
I don’t ask anything about it though, and when he gestures ahead, to go deeper into the house, I stand from the bench and cautiously prowl inside.
There’re a few steps up, then a spiraling staircase to my right which I assume is not where we’re going, and up ahead, the kitchen to the left, the dining room to the right, and right in front of me, glass cabinets full of liquor.
There are so many bottles, Faust Darling could host a party for the entire fanbase that crowds Sky Arena every game day.
Seriously.
There’s… a lot. Five rows of cabinets, all full size, stretching to the ceiling.
I stop, then turn to look over my shoulder.
And he’s there, framed by the dim light of the entrance hall.
Right there.
So close I can feel his heat at my back.
So close I can see the stubble on his jaw.
“You don’t drink.” It comes out like an accusation and that’s not what I meant, and maybe he does, but I’ve never seen it.
He tilts his head. “I don’t?”
“Do you?” I counter.
He shakes his head once, pressing his lips together so he doesn’t smile.
“Then why…” I gesture toward the cabinets that have stalled my inspection of his house.
“Gifts.”
I turn to face him fully then. What the fuck? “What do you mean, gifts?”
His dark eyes seem to spark as he lifts his brows. “Is that your mocking voice? Does it just stay the same for everyone? Because that did not sound like me at all. Too American.”