He looked me over, slowly, and I did the same to him. Quickly.
He had to be closer to my age than his teenage sister’s, and he definitely wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. I realized I hadn’t even wondered, until this moment, if anyone might be in the house with him. Or how old he was. Or if he might actually be perfectly healthy and sane.
He didn’t look insane, but really, what did an insane person look like?
He looked fit. Definitely no beer belly.
No sleazy robe, either.
He wore a gray T-shirt that was kind of wrinkled, with worn gray jeans. A simple, brown leather bracelet. His hair was light brown, kind of blonde, but not as sun-streaked as I remembered it. It was cut short around the back and a little longer over his forehead, very modern rock star, and kind of messy, like he didn’t bother doing anything with it when he got out of bed this morning.
Definitely hadn’t done anything extra to prepare for this meeting. Less than I had, even.
He had a strong jawline, kind of a small nose, and very nice lips. And slightly dark circles under his gorgeous eyes. They were a light hazel color, like his sister’s. They met mine again and held there.
When he said absolutely nothing, I asked, “Are you Cary?”
He was, I was pretty sure. Unless he had a twin or something. He looked pretty much like all his photos.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m Cary.”
“Courteney asked me to come talk to you today. Is this a good time?”
He just stood there, and he didn’t answer me.
And I wondered… Was there something wrong with this guy? Like did he have some kind of brain damage from too many rock star drug binges?
Was he really a shut-in? Was this as close as he would get to stepping outside his door?
Did he really not use his gorgeous pool?
And if he was a shut-in… when was the last time he’d seen a woman who wasn’t his sister? Not that it was any of my business, but the way he was looking at me made me wonder.
It wasn’t a blank stare. He was definitely thinking… something. And for a long, uncomfortable moment, I was one-hundred-percent sure that he was about to either A) tell me to leave, or B) shut the door in my face without even answering me.
Then he blinked, and his expression changed. That unnerving intensity in his eyes broke. His focus softened and he glanced down at my feet.
“Yeah,” he said, finally. “Come in.”
“Thank you.”
He turned and walked back into the house, leaving me standing there. I stepped inside and let my eyes adjust. We were in a living room and there were no lights turned on. It was kind of dim, the curtains on the windows on either side of the French doors filtering the daylight.
I closed the door behind myself and followed him. He crossed the room and sat down in an armchair kind of like it was his throne, but he didn’t look relaxed. He pointed at the couch next to him.
I sat down in the middle of the couch and laid my purse on the coffee table in front of me. He looked at it. He looked at my feet. He looked at my tattoos. The Gimme Shelter tattoo up my inner right arm, the flower tattoo on my left wrist.
I glanced around the room. It was large and seemed professionally decorated. Danica, who was an interior decorator, would definitely approve. Everything was in tones of cream, some charcoal-gray, and looked expensive. The cozy sitting area was dominated by the huge couch I was sitting on. There was a giant flatscreen TV across from it; had to be an eighty-inch screen, at least.
But it all felt very untouched, like no one actually used this room.
I looked at Courteney’s brother. He was just sitting there, staring at me.
“You have a beautiful house,” I said.
And in response, he said, “Is your foot wet?”
I looked down at my foot. It did look wet. “I dipped it in the pool,” I admitted. “I left my shoes out there, too.” I wiggled my bare toes on the carpet as he scrutinized them.
Then he met my eyes again. He said nothing.
Shit. What if he was a germaphobe or something? I glanced down. His feet were bare, too, but he lived here.
“Should I go get them?” I asked.
“No.”
I tried to smile a little. And I decided that he looked different from