our eyes meeting with a warmth that I have absolutely no idea what to do with. I’m not sure what would have happened had a door not opened down the hall and distracted us.
I clear my throat, drop my eyes, and make my way to my condo, Damian right behind me.
Three
A WEEK LATER, I’M READING on the couch on a Thursday evening and halfway through a glass of Riesling when Damian comes back home.
He’s been working at the library all day. He’s followed the same schedule every weekday. Leave the condo by seven in the morning and not return for at least twelve hours. While I suppose it’s possible that he’s doing other things while he’s gone, he claims that he sits in a library carrel and works on his dissertation all day, only breaking to grab something to eat or take a walk to stretch his legs.
I have no reason not to believe him.
I’ve never met anyone who works as constantly as I do, but Damian certainly comes close.
He sometimes hasn’t returned by the time I go to bed, so he’s actually back fairly early this evening. I glance over as he comes into the room and drops his saddlebag on the floor near the counter stools before walking into the kitchen to open the refrigerator.
He’s dressed like normal in jeans and a casual shirt, and his expression is characteristically unrevealing. But for some reason I think he looks tired. Like it’s taking effort for him to manage even simple actions.
“Hey,” I say from the couch.
He glances over, jerking in what’s obviously surprise. “Hey. I didn’t know you were here.”
“Really? I’ve been on the couch the whole time.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t expect you to be there, so I didn’t look. You’re always working when I get home—or you’re in bed.”
That’s true, I suppose. I hadn’t thought about it before, but those are the two places I’ve been in the evenings on his return. Evidently I’m a creature of habit. So much so that I don’t even change positions. “Oh. Well, I’m here today.”
His eyes scan my oversized T-shirt, leggings, and thick, cozy socks. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Just frustrated with work, so I gave up for the day.” At his questioning look, I add, “I’ve been kind of at loose ends for the past year, looking for something new to inspire me. I keep playing around with different projects, but I can’t get excited about them. So I keep moving on to something else. It’s annoying.”
“Sounds like it. Why doesn’t anything inspire you?”
“Who knows?” I’ve already shared more with him than I would with anyone else. So I use an empty phrase that always seems to conclude a conversation. “It is what it is.”
He arches his eyebrows like he knows what I’m doing. “I guess. What are you drinking?”
“Riesling. The bottle is in the fridge if you want some.”
He takes it out, studies the label, and then grabs a glass to pour himself some. He’s half smiling as he carries it into the living room and takes the leather chair. “I didn’t figure you for a Riesling person.”
I frown. “What’s a Riesling person?”
“Someone who likes Riesling. What did you think it was?”
“I don’t know.” I sit up so I can peer at him, trying as always to read what he’s thinking behind his handsome features. “What kind of wine did you think I’d like?”
He gives a small shrug. “I don’t know. Something drier. With more of a bite.”
“Why did you think that? Because the dry stuff is trendy and you think I follow the herd, or because you think I have a bite?”
He lifts his eyebrows over a sip of his wine. “I know you don’t follow the herd.”
I can’t help but laugh softly at his expression. “I guess that means you think I have a bite.” Sighing, I relax back against the couch, propping my feet up on the large polished coffee table. “You’re probably right. But it’s not because I feel bite-prone. It’s more that I’m...”
“Prickly,” he finished for me.
My spine stiffens dramatically. “Prickly? Prickly?”
He chuckles around another sip of wine. “Not a good word?”
“Have you ever met anyone in the world who likes to be called prickly?”
“No. To tell you the truth, I haven’t.”
“You knew perfectly well how I would react to that word. That’s why you said it, isn’t it?” I’m not angry or even particularly annoyed, although my tone is faintly indignant. There’s absolutely no reason I should be enjoying this conversation, but I am.