It’s decadent to wash like this. I want to live in this bathroom.
I reluctantly leave the shower and dry myself.
There’s a knock on the door. I wrap the towel tightly around me.
“Yes?” I whisper tentatively.
“Calista, I have clothes for you on the bed.”
I sneak out after a while, peeking first to see if I’m alone. The bedroom door is closed.
On the bed is a gray cashmere sleep set; pajamas and a shirt. Soft. Elegant. In my size.
Say what?
It’s like his apartment has been ready forme. Like he knew I’d come here.
Who the hell was Lucian Maddox?
11
TELL ME EVERYTHING
CALISTA
We eatspezzatino di manzo, made the Sicilian way.
It’s a simple beef stew, and my favorite meal, and this one tastes just like the one my mother used to make.
He serves the stew in big bowls, with thick slices of ciabatta.
“You made this?” I ask.
We’re sitting at the kitchen island. He doesn’t have a dining table.
“No. I ordered it.”
“From a restaurant?”
“We have a chef in the building.”
Right!
“I told them to make it the Sicilian way,” he adds. “Do you like it?”
He sounds hesitant, and I smile at that. “Best I’ve had since my mama’s.”
He looks pleased.
As I eat, I can feel him watching me. Not like before—this isn’t about surveillance, after all; I’m sitting right next to him.
It’s as if he’s keeping me grounded.
Or maybe holding himself back?
My migraine has been relegated deep inside. I can feel a slight throb, but I know now that it won’t turn into a full-blown attack.
After we’re done eating, he asks if I’d like coffee.
