happened between them, this was going to be an enormous change for her. And even more so for him. He had never had a normal woman in his life, and she hadn't had a partner and companion in her life in years.
She slipped out of bed quietly, and went to take a shower. She let him sleep for as long as possible, and then made breakfast for both of them. She woke him up by serving him breakfast in bed on a tray. It was a far cry from the women he had fed, served, taken care of, nursed back to health, or doled out their medication to because they were too irresponsible or whacked-out to be responsible for it themselves. He looked up at Sylvia in amazement, as she set the tray down on the bed, and kissed his shoulder. He looked handsome and sexy lying in her bed, even with his uncombed hair. She loved his looks, he was strong and powerful and interesting and very male.
“Did I die and go to Heaven, or is this just a dream?” He put his arms behind his head and lay smiling at her. “I don't think I've ever had breakfast in bed, unless cold two-day-old pizza on a paper towel counts.” She had even put a small vase with a rose in it on the tray. It was fun spoiling him. She had missed having someone to fuss over and take care of. For most of her adult life she had had a husband and children to nurture. Now everyone was gone. And she was excited to be pampering him.
“I'm sorry to wake you,” she apologized. It was ten o'clock, and she wanted to go to his studio with him, as they had discussed, before she went to work. Gray glanced at the clock in consternation.
“Good Lord. What time did you get up?”
“Around seven. I very rarely sleep late.”
“Neither do I. But I slept like a baby last night.” He smiled at her, and then got up to comb his hair and brush his teeth. He came back a minute later, and settled back into her comfortable bed with the tray. “You're going to spoil me, Sylvia. I'll get fat and lazy.” There was no risk of that, she suspected. She was just enjoying being with him, and doing for him. She handed him the newspaper, which she'd read herself, while she had coffee and toast in the kitchen. He glanced at it, and put it away. He would much rather talk to her.
They chatted while he ate, and then he got up and got ready. They left for his studio at eleven, and walked out of her apartment hand in hand. She felt like a teenager with a new romance, but it had been so long since she felt that way that she was enjoying every minute of it. She was smiling as they walked out into the September sunshine, and he hailed a cab. It was a short ride to his apartment, and as they walked up four flights of stairs in the dilapidated old brownstone, he apologized for the mess in advance.
“I've been gone for a month, and to be honest, it was a mess before that. In fact”—he grinned broadly at her, slightly out of breath as they reached his landing—“it's been a mess for years.” So had his life, but he didn't point that out to her. He had appeared to be a pillar of stability to the women he went out with, but compared to Sylvia, he seemed haphazard and disorganized. She ran an extremely successful gallery, had had two long relationships in her life, raised two normal, healthy children to adulthood, and everything about her life and apartment was impeccable, orderly, and neat as a pin. When he opened the door to his apartment, they could hardly get through the door. One of his suitcases was blocking it, there were packages the super had just shoved in, and a stack of mail had fallen and was spread all over the floor. The bills he'd paid the day before lay open and in disarray on a table. There were clothes on the couch, his plants had died, and everything in the apartment looked tired and worn. It had a comfortable, masculine feeling to it. The furniture was decent looking, although the upholstery was worn. He had bought everything in the place secondhand. There was a round dining table in the corner of the room,