Twenty-Seven
Bay
This wasn’t a room I had been in yet. The opulence didn’t surprise me, but it seemed odd for two people to dine at such a large table.
Like the rest of the house, it had a high ceiling with rustic wooden beams exposed.
Dark craftsman woodwork on all four walls with the room being illuminated by a massive, round chandelier made of branches.
The table sat fourteen, but only the far end seat and the spot to its right were set.
This felt intimate, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to have a meal like that with this man.
Although most women would. But then those women hadn’t been strip-searched, abducted, and held captive by him. That was just me. And I wasn’t keen on getting to know him any more than I already did. I didn’t need adventure in my life. I was good with boring. I wanted it back.
“Do you eat in here alone every night?” I asked, finding that maybe I was a little curious about him.
“No, I typically eat in the kitchen. But when I have guests, we dine in here.”
I wanted to laugh. “I’m not a guest.”
He cut his eyes at me as he pulled out his chair and sat down. “Maybe not, but here we are.”
Slash hadn’t followed us into the room, but headed in the direction of the kitchen. He must know his meal would be served in there. I missed his presence. Being alone with Hale made me uncomfortable.
A glass of red wine was by the empty seat to his right. “Have a seat. Ellen said you were fond of the Pétrus, but you had the only bottle I had in the cellar. This one—Chateau Le Pin—is from the same region, Pomerol. I think you’ll find it to your liking.”
I liked merlot. I had no idea what all he had just said, but if it was anything like the last wine she had brought me, then I would have no complaints. I feared going back to my Kendall-Jackson was going to be difficult.
“I’m going to guess that Pomerol isn’t in California,” I said, taking a seat.
“France,” he replied. “I’m not a wine drinker, but when I do drink it, I prefer French wines to Italian.”
“No Cali for you then,” I quipped.
He shook his head.
Of course not. That would be entirely too affordable.
I picked up the glass and studied the rich color. “Why do you have a wine cellar if you don’t drink wine?” I asked as the question struck me.
“It’s not just a wine cellar,” he replied. “There is a room for the wine. It’s cooler in there, and the shelves are different. The bottles are stored on their sides. The other room is for whiskey. Those bottles have to be stored upright. The whiskey will erode the cork otherwise.”
Things I had not known and had no real use for. “The whiskey cellar makes sense, but still, why the wine?”
He appeared in thought a moment, then finally set his glass down and lifted his eyes to meet mine. “I had a wife once, when this house was designed and built. She was a wine drinker. Most of the bottles in the cellar are those she brought back from trips or kept because she enjoyed them.”
I took a drink from my glass, and it was just as delicious as the one last night had been.
“She has good taste.”
“Had,” he replied. “She passed away eighteen years ago. Breast cancer.”
Oh. I set my glass down. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”
“No reason to apologize. You said nothing wrong.”
Was that why he was single? I mean, I assumed he was. There was no other woman coming around. He had been in DC for an unknown amount of time. Had he been married to the love of his life and lost her? How horribly tragic.
“Than, my youngest, who picked us up at the airstrip, he was just a kid.”
That had been his son. And Opal—they’d talked about his daughter. He’d not made her up either.
“I hope the wine is to your liking.”
Ellen’s voice drew my attention from Hale. She held a tray of food as she made her way to us. I felt odd, sitting here and having her serve me.
“It’s wonderful,” I assured her. “Can I help you with anything?” I asked.
“Oh, no. No, you just relax and enjoy your meal,” she replied as she placed a salad in front of me. “Kale, quinoa, and avocado with a sprinkle of sunflower seeds,” she informed me. “It’s one of Mr. Carver’s favorites.”
I looked at the fancy salad, then at Hale, who was watching me. He didn’t really strike me as a salad eater. More of a carnivore.
“You don’t like salads?” he asked after thanking Ellen.
“I love them, and this one looks delicious, but I didn’t peg you for someone who ate salads.”
“I’m fifty. I need my vegetables.”
A smile curled my lips, surprising me. This wasn’t the awkward situation I had anticipated. Or maybe the wine was strong. Did French wines have a higher alcohol volume? One sip wouldn’t have relaxed me.
“You don’t look fifty,” I admitted before thinking that through.
“How old do I look?” he asked before putting a forkful of salad in his mouth.
“Early to mid-forties.”
He smirked. “It’s the whiskey. It’s preserved me.”
“I don’t think it works that way,” I said, picking up my fork. “Whiskey ages a person.”
“Yet it hasn’t me.”
“You must have good genes.”
He chuckled, and I took the first bite of my salad. Oddly enough, I was going to enjoy my meal.