Chapter 9
By that evening, I had changed my mind about dinner with Preston Sinclair half a dozen times. Every time I considered canceling, I reminded myself why I’d agreed to go.
I needed answers.
And I needed to learn what sort of man he was for myself.
I stood in front of the mirror in my bedroom, smoothing my hands over the fitted black dress I’d chosen.
I hadn't worn the dress in a while, not since my mother’s health began to decline.
I’d also applied makeup for the first time in longer than I cared to admit.
Nothing dramatic. A little foundation, mascara, and a deep shade of lipstick that made my green eyes stand out.
My hair fell in loose waves over my shoulders, and a pair of black heels completed the look.
For a moment, I didn’t recognize myself.
Then I smiled.
There she was, the woman I had been before my mother’s health had started to decline.
Before doctor appointments and pharmacy visits took the place of dinners with friends.
Before my life became a routine built around caring for someone else.
I had forgotten what it felt like to make an effort for no reason other than wanting to feel good.
And I did feel good.
Confident, too.
At seven o’clock, I stepped outside, my eyes coming to rest on the black sports car parked out front, the same one I’d seen Preston get out of earlier.
I crossed the yard separating our properties and followed the stone walkway leading to his front door.
Warm light glowed through the tall windows, and somewhere inside, slow jazz music drifted through the walls.
I lifted my hand to knock, but the door opened before I had the chance.
Preston stood on the other side wearing charcoal slacks and a black button-down shirt with the top two buttons undone.
His gaze moved over me.
“Well,” he said.
I raised a brow. “Well, what?”
“I was prepared to compliment you.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m trying to think of one that won’t get me slapped.”
“I’m sure you’ll manage.”
His smile widened. “You look incredible.”
“Thank you.”
He stepped aside. “Come in.”
The moment I entered, I understood why Preston’s house was so much larger than every other home on the hill.
The foyer alone looked as though it belonged inside a luxury hotel.
A massive chandelier hung overhead, casting light across pale marble floors.
A curved staircase rose along one wall, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the backyard.
“Follow me,” he said. “I’ll give you a tour.”
We began the tour in the living room, a room that was larger than my entire downstairs. It had cream-colored furniture, dark wood accents, and enough artwork to fill a small gallery. Some even looked like originals.
Every room we entered was immaculate, with nothing out of place.
We left the living room and continued through a set of glass doors leading toward the back of the house. The property stretched much farther than I had realized. Beyond the pool was a covered outdoor bar, a sunken firepit, and a tennis court lit by small lanterns set into the surrounding stone.
“Do you play tennis?” I asked.
“Not well, I’m afraid.”
“Then why have a court?”
“Because it was already here when I bought the place. I couldn’t bring myself to tear it out. I find it charming, like a piece of the past worth preserving.”
He opened the door to the garage, and I stopped.
Seven sports cars were parked in a perfect row.
“You have seven cars?” I asked.
“One for every day of the week.”
“Seems excessive.”
“I’d say it seems fun.”
I laughed despite myself.
His gaze dropped before returning to my face. “I like your dress.”
“Are you planning on complimenting me all night?”
“If you deserve the compliment, why not?”
Deserve.
Interesting choice of word.
He led me back inside and into the kitchen, where dinner had already been arranged on the island.
A large bowl of pasta sat beside roasted vegetables, garlic bread, and a salad topped with shaved parmesan.
Three bottles of red wine stood nearby, each with labels I didn’t recognize but suspected were expensive.
“It smells wonderful,” I said.
“I’m glad you approve.”
I looked around the kitchen.
Every surface gleamed, and there wasn’t a dirty pan in sight.
No discarded utensils in the sink.
No splatter on the stove.
Nothing to suggest a meal had been prepared here.
“You didn’t make dinner, did you?” I asked.
He placed a hand over his heart.
“I’m wounded you would suggest such a thing,” he teased. “Perhaps I clean as I go.”
“So do I, but when I cook, there’s always evidence.”
He studied me for a moment, then wagged a finger. “You’re far more observant than most.”
“It isn’t the first time someone has said that to me.”
“I suppose I’d better confess then. A close friend of mine owns an Italian restaurant downtown. He cooked everything.”
Preston reached for one of the bottles and poured two glasses, handing one to me.
He raised his glass. “To new neighbors.”
I raised mine. “And new friends.”
Our glasses touched.
Preston took a sip, his eyes never leaving mine.
I’d spent the entire day thinking about this moment.
Rehearsing questions.
Considering how much to reveal and how much to keep to myself.
No amount of charm on Preston’s part was going to derail me.
If it was a game of wits he wanted, I had come to play.