Chapter 19 #2
He lay on the rug in front of the fireplace, huddled inside a sleeping bag, fast asleep. Red embers still glowed behind the glass. He must have kept the fire going all night. I didn’t want to wake him, but I had so many questions.
Why wasn’t he sleeping in his bed? Why was his house enormous? Did anyone else live here? Where was the bathroom?
I got up as quietly as I could and tiptoed around his sleeping form. The polished wood floor felt cool even through my fluffy socks. He was lying on top of a woven rug, which must have been both hard and cold. How could anyone sleep like that?
The bathroom I found down the hall was gorgeous, with emerald-green tiles, a subtle chevron-patterned tile floor, and chrome fixtures.
Luxurious but in keeping with the house’s historical bones.
It reminded me of the first-class lounge on the ship…
or Spencer’s family estate. I’d loved that house.
In hindsight, I loved the estate more than I’d ever loved Spencer.
Lesson learned. I wasn’t going to be dazzled by possessions ever again.
Still, I loved this mirror. And the fluffy terracotta towel. And everything else.
Compared to Fredrik’s house, the bookstore was a gloomy cave. Which was the real him? The man in threadbare boots surrounded by dusty books, or the one with this quietly spectacular house? Did he come from money? Was he secretly loaded?
I wandered the first floor, careful not to wake him. If he stayed asleep, I could have a quick peek at the rest of the house and figure out what kind of rich he was. Middle-management rich? Richy-rich? Or the worst kind, who called themselves “comfortable”?
Spencer’s mom had dropped that line a few times. The gratitude in her quivering voice was always genuine. She believed everyone who didn’t have a million dollars in their checking account was painfully uncomfortable.
After ten minutes of tiptoeing around the first floor, I concluded the house was half-renovated. The contrast between the finished and unfinished rooms wasn’t stark. It seemed he was restoring the house to its original glory.
There was no evidence of a sauna, though.
Once I’d satisfied my curiosity downstairs, I snuck upstairs. I discovered three more not-yet-renovated bedrooms with yellowing wallpaper, and a bathroom that gave me an idea of what the downstairs one might have looked like before. Off-white and boring. It was also freezing.
“Would you like a tour of my underwear drawer?”
Fredrik’s voice made me jump. I slammed the cupboard door. “I… was looking for toilet paper.”
“There’s toilet paper right there.” He pointed at the holder.
I shrugged. “Well… yes. I like to do spot checks. You don’t hold a lot of stock.”
“How much toilet paper do you need?”
I gave him an indignant look. “I feel safer seeing spare rolls.”
“Like these?” He opened a door of a corner cabinet, revealing a stack of toilet paper rolls.
I gave an assessing nod. “Much better.”
We both knew I’d been snooping.
“Breakfast?” He nodded at the stairs.
“Do you have coffee?”
“Sure.”
He led me to the kitchen, and I admired its high ceiling, paneled windows, and pendant lights glowing over a huge island. It was beautiful, but too pristine, like a showroom.
“This is so gorgeous! I feel like I should move in and spend my life baking pies.”
Fredrik gave me a look.
“I won’t,” I said quickly. “Just a feeling… inspired by your kitchen.”
I had an instant urge to add color, even a bowl of fruit or a loud mug, but somehow managed to keep that thought to myself.
I trailed one finger across the counter. Dust clung to my fingertip. “You don’t cook much, do you?”
“I live alone. What’s the point?”
“What do you mean?” I protested. “You can fry an egg. Make a small pizza. Cook a big batch of curry and freeze it.”
His brow furrowed as if I’d proposed he should churn his own butter.
“You want eggs?” He produced a carton of eggs, butter, cheese, and found bread from the freezer, lining them up on the kitchen island.
“Perfect! What do you normally have?”
“Coffee.”
“Nothing else?”
“I usually just pick up something on the way to work.” He stared at the ingredients as though they’d appeared by sorcery.
My disappointment over the store still simmered in the background, but it was mixing with gratitude.
He’d saved me, again. He’d kept me warm all night, worried about my well-being.
He deserved a proper, home-cooked breakfast. Moreover, his house deserved to be used.
A kitchen like this should smell of butter and sugar and spices, not just exist, gathering dust.
“Can I make eggs?” I asked.
He sagged in visible relief, retreating from the counter. “Make whatever you want.”
“Are you sure? What if I… move things?”
He dropped onto a barstool, elbows on the counter, and groaned into his hands. “I’m sorry. I know I’ve been an asshole.”
I froze. “No. I overstepped, but don’t worry. I put everything back in the bookstore.”
His head lifted. “You put it all back?”
“Yeah. Did you not notice?”
“It was dark.” He winced. “Now I feel worse.”
Warmth swelled in my chest. I leaned over the island, close enough that my fingertips nearly brushed his. “Fredrik. I mean it. I went too far. And I’m trying hard not to make the same mistake again.”
He looked wrecked, sitting there in corduroy slacks and a brown long-sleeved shirt that hugged him in unfair ways. The slice of his muscled forearm that showed made my stomach dip. I wanted to touch it.
I gripped the egg carton instead. “I’m going to open all your drawers until I find a frying pan. Is that okay?”