Eyes back on the road, I tried to contain my jealousy at the thought. “Let’s see if my lunch schedule coincides with yours.”
“If not, then our dinners will be even more special.”
Casting a peek at her, I saw the smile return, the sight easing my strain.
“Definitely will.”
“So, you’re cooking dinner for me tonight. What’s on the menu, Chef Gabe?”
Chuckling, I said, “It’s a surprise.”
This was the first time we were going to my place, and I wasn’t sure what she would think of it. It was a blank slate, a temporary blip in my life that needed nothing more than basic furnishings.
“Don’t expect much,” I said, unlocking the door when we arrived. “I’m not a knickknack guy.”
Throwing the door open, I gestured for her to go in before me. I hit the lights, watching her reaction.
“You surely are not,” she said. “Do you own anything but furniture?”
My keys clanked when I dropped them on the counter. “Not really.” But I couldn’t tell her this was only a stop in my life, that important things didn’t need to be part of my life here. Just my computer and a bed. And now, Tori.
She spun to me, evaluating me again, something she did frequently. Tori was a thinker, deep in her head, thoughtful and taking her time with decisions and judgments. She was smarter than she let on, and I saw her trying to figure me out again.
“At least I have furniture,” I said, hitting the kitchen light.
“So I should be thankful for the couch?” Humor tinted her question.
“Yup. It was almost a futon.”
She put her hands on her hips. “You don’t strike me as a futon guy. And considering how high-end this furniture is, I can’t imagine one was ever really on your list.”
I creased my eyes, trying to figure out how she knew my furniture was high-end. Nothing but the best for William Icinda’s son. I’d had to argue for days to buy an inexpensive car instead of taking the Jaguar, arguing that it would make me stand out. The conversation went over as well as my decision to move to Florida. Something that had taken convincing, but after spinning it as a way to help the company, he had relented. I’d bought the car, much to his aggravation, because someone at my level didn’t make Jag money.
She was waiting for an explanation, and I could have just told her I made enough. But the lies kept compounding, and I needed to give her some truth. Given how I was planning to spoil her, I ran my hand through my hair and said, “My mother died when I was sixteen.” Her face morphed, the sorrow in her eyes enough to make me hate myself for sharing.
“I’m so sorry, Gabe.”
“Don’t be.”It’s my father who should be sorry.“It was a long time ago. But when she died, she left a trust fund for me and Liv. It provides well above my means every month. I invest most of my payments, but sometimes, I splurge, and I prefer a soft couch to a stiff futon.”
It wasn’t a direct lie. My mother had died, and there had been a trust fund. One that paid out to me when I turned twenty. She’d also left one to Liv, who had received hers three years earlier than I had. But the money I spent on things like furniture was from the spending account my father had established for me. Our mother’s money I had invested in our plan to unravel him. The startup money for the company that was now hidden under layers of LLCs and whose equity would be enough to rival our father’s when we made our ultimate move in five years.
“So, you’re a trust fund baby?” she teased me. “That was your big secret?”
“Almost as big as the fact that your family owns one of the most popular resorts in Connecticut?”
The corner of her lip tugged, and I knew I had her.
“Get those books out and start studying. You can test out the couch to see if it meets your standards, Goldilocks.”
She gave me a peck on the cheek and grabbed her study guide.
“If I fall asleep while reading this, don’t wake me,” she said, flipping through the pages. “I don’t know if I want to be dragged back to this hell.”
I chuckled as she took a highlighter out of her bag. She sat on the couch, her skirt bunching to show more of her sexy thighs. Dragging my sight from them, I started prepping dinner. A recipe my mother had taught me, handed down through her family since before her grandparents had moved from Italy.
By the time I finished making the chicken piccata, Tori had stretched out on my couch, book between her hands. She had her feet in the air, legs crossed at the ankles, and had pulled her hair back. I couldn’t help but stare at how adorable she looked, unguarded and relaxed. Navy irises peeked over the book at me.
“How’s the studying going?” I asked, bringing two plates of food to the table.
