Chapter 15
JUNE
Cooking is fun, though, I’m also an expert on takeout. I serve a mean pizza on paper napkins or Pad Thai when I work late hours. The taco truck that parks across the street from my office feeds me most mornings with breakfast burritos or afternoons with an order of tacos or just nachos.
Still, the few times I have enough time, I try to prepare my food and next year I have to learn how to be more conscious about what I eat.
To start making it a habit, and after stalking Sterling on Google, I decide to spend some time in his gorgeous kitchen.
It shocks me that it’s not just equipped with state-of-the-art appliances. There’s real food everywhere.
What’s more surprising is having a man padding barefoot around the kitchen helping me set the table.
It’s been a long time since I shared a meal with a guy.
Not any guy though, Sterling Ahern. Who, by the way, isn’t old or ugly either.
He stands close to me, with wet rumpled waves falling partially over his forehead.
He’s handsome and so sure about himself.
Something about his offer has me thinking about the list.
What is it that I want to accomplish?
Then, there’s the doctor’s appointment. I haven’t had my period yet so what if the doctor says I’m not ready?
“Do you think the snow will clear up by Monday?”
“Sure, it’s been going on for two days and from here it looks like it’s tapering off. If the sun comes out tomorrow, the snow should melt fast and the streets will be almost clear by Monday. Why?”
I glance at the big window and wonder what almost clear means.
“I have to go to the lab first thing in the morning for some blood work, to prepare for Tuesday’s appointment. Then, I have to do some shopping—and well, the furniture.”
He nods, pulls out his phone, and taps it a few times.
“One of the guys will drive you,” he announces.
“Babysitters,” I say with a hint of mockery.
“Bodyguards,” he growls but I can see a smile playing on his lips. “It’s not by choice in case you’re wondering.”
Not by choice? I’ve worked with athletes and celebrities and not many of them have a security team. What makes him need one?
While we finish setting the table, I keep wondering what is real and what is fake about the artist he shows to the world. When we sit down to eat, I fire my next question. Hopefully, it’s the right one, because he seems like the person who doesn’t like to talk much about who he really is.
“How often do you entertain?”
He smiles and takes a forkful of the Spanish rice I made, chews, and takes a sip of water to wash it down. “This is good.”
“Thank you, I like rice a lot so don’t be surprised if I make a bowl or Greek food tomorrow.” I try the rice and he’s right. I outdid myself this time. Maybe it was the fact that I had some extra time to prepare it. It never comes out like this. It’s usually overcooked.
“What makes you think I entertain often?” He gives me a dazzling grin. That grin that captivates me and reminds me how good we were together.
A flush climbs up to my hairline as I think about the last time we kissed. The third time we fucked. I stare at his muscled arms trying not to think about the muscles he packs beneath the T-shirt and worn jeans.
Not the best memory to replay as we’re trapped in his house for another couple of days.
I go back to our current conversation. The best I can do until I can at least check into a hotel is keep things friendly.
“The fridge and the pantry are well-stocked. Anyone would think you have a family living here—or at least a roommate.”
He prepares himself a taco, and it drives me crazy that he’s ignoring me or at least the question.
“So, how often do you invite women to have … dinner with you?”
He regards me with narrowed eyes.
I’m instantly remorseful about my words. “I didn’t mean it to sound judgmental.”
“I live alone. That’s the way I like it.
If you’re speaking about the guy you googled, I’m not him, but I accept that I had a misspent youth.
” He exhales loudly. “It’s a long time ago.
I don’t eat out often. Unless you count the events that I have to attend.
We have plenty of food because my bodyguards stick around often. ”
I take a bite of my taco and after I chew and swallow, I say, “Sounds lonely.”
He looks at me and appears to consider what I said before he speaks, “It’s not.”
Sterling drinks some of the tequila. Not like a shot but as if he’s drinking bourbon. He leans back and watches me speculatively. I can’t help staring at him and for a second, I want to be the person who can convince him that having someone by his side is actually better than how he lives.
“I like my solitude,” he speaks. “People are welcome to visit and stay for a while but never to stick around.”
“So, no significant other,” I conclude.
He snorts. “No, I don’t get attached to anyone or anything.”
I tilt my head toward the bed and all the paraphernalia he has for his dog, “How about your dog?”
“I foster dogs,” he answers annoyed. Clearly, he’s not used to being the center of attention and to have someone intruding with so many questions. “I don’t have time for a permanent pet, a woman, and not even my family. I’m almost forty and honestly, I like the way I live.”
The tone he uses when he speaks makes me wonder if he’s trying to convince himself that his life is good or doubting what he’s done so far. Maybe it’s me. I’m trying to read between the lines because from where I stand, he’s a catch.
Wouldn’t it be amazing to have him in my life?
But it’s obvious that we don’t fit. It’s not like I want him to fall madly in love with me and propose but … He seems like the kind of guy who cares about others. He reminds me of Dad and my brothers. They’d take off a coat for a stranger and give their lives for their loved ones.
“So, you don’t plan on ever getting married and having children,” I conclude.
“I don’t believe in marriage or having spawns. It’s not for me. I’m selfish and to have children you need discipline. Same for a wife. My work consumes every second of my life.”
I dig into my rice, trying to think about what he’s saying. “Belonging to someone isn’t time-consuming. My parents have been together for forty years and they’re still crazy in love. They belong to each other and … It’s natural to want to be attached to someone.”
Not that it’s happening to me or that it might ever happen. I stop talking because I can see that no matter how much I argue he doesn’t even care about continuing the conversation. Love might not be part of his vocabulary.
“What are you looking for, Juniper?”
The question is so simple and yet, pretty complicated.
“Joy,” I answer. “If you’re wondering if I’m looking for a man, the answer is no. Love isn’t something you seek, I’ve learned that the hard way. It comes to some; others have to find happiness in other forms. But I’m not waiting for things to happen, I never do.”
He nods. “You seem like the kind of woman who takes charge of her own life. Even when fun incidents happen to you. I guess you don’t enjoy surprises.”
“It depends on what surprises you’re talking about.” I watch him intently. “There’s a huge difference between a surprise party and one of your best employees quitting your firm and stealing your clients. Some believe that life just happens, but I’m a big believer in making things happen.”
“You need to live a little more,” he murmurs and there’s worry etched into his handsome face.
I’m puzzled by the connection between us. It’s like we can sense what the other is missing or maybe we’re missing some pieces that the other seems to have.
“So, you’re telling me you didn’t plan on becoming famous?”
“It all started out of spite. My father didn’t want to pay for college. “Art is a hobby,” he’d say. My parents never believed in me. I had to show them that I could make it on my own.”
“Did they pay for anything?”
“Nope, it was part college loans and part my brother sending money afraid I’d end up selling my kidney to cover my rent.
New York isn’t cheap. I wanted to make it on my own.
Nothing would’ve stopped me. My parents were waiting for me to quit and say, you’re right, I can’t do anything without your money.
Even after his death, my father expected me to take over the company and assume all his responsibilities.
I had a lot to prove to them and … to myself. No one believed in my talent.”
I want to tell him that it takes a lot of discipline and hard work to become an artist, especially to become him.
“Do you believe in yourself?”
He looks at me puzzled and yet as if I have just given him the answer to the meaning of life. Does he understand this is a question?
After dinner, Sterling and I clean up the kitchen. He invites me to watch a movie in his entertainment room. The penthouse doesn’t look like much at first sight but it’s huge. I expected a simple family room, no, the place looks like a movie theater. We watch television for the rest of the evening.
Erase that, I watch shows while he is enthralled in his sketchbooks. He goes through several of them. Doesn’t crumple them, just goes to the next page. Poor man, I think he lost his muse. Does he even have a muse?
“No inspiration?” I ask when he turns the page over.
“Plenty,” he answers, staring at the blank slate. “Never been so inspired in my life. What do you say we call it a night?”
I stretch and nod. “What time is it anyway?”
“Almost midnight,” he says, looking at his phone. “Do you want to sleep in my room or the guest room? I’ll take whichever you don’t.”
“What’s the difference?”
“The guest room doesn’t have a comfortable bed. If I were you, I’d take my bedroom,” he offers, and I feel as if there’s an ulterior motive to it but I’m afraid to ask.
We leave the entertainment room, head upstairs and he simply says, “Have a good night, June.”
He walks away and doesn’t look back. What am I missing?