Brielle: The art of showmanship is lost on you.
I fight back a laugh and collect my things for the day, walking through the office before I leave. There are still a couple of people around, but it’s otherwise cleared out. I leave them to finish their day and head over to the café to pick up Brielle.
She’s waiting inside when I get there. The lights in the café illuminate her as she sits in front of the window, shining a spotlight on her like she’s starring in a movie.
Brielle looks up at the sound of the door opening as I make my way inside. “Let’s go.”
“Did you want to stay here?” she asks, but she’s already collecting the coat that she’s discarded and her large black bag.
“No. There’s no food here.” A couple of bakery items sit in a display case, but nothing that would be acceptable to feed her for dinner.
She nods and follows me out to my car, ducking inside quickly. We drive in an uncomfortable silence as I make my way back to my apartment.
“Do you always drive without the music on?” She blurts her question out, cutting through the quietness.
“Not when I’m alone, but I shut it off when I know I’m going to have someone in the car with me.”
“Because you have crappy taste in music?” she asks, crinkling her nose in mock embarrassment.
“No. My taste in music is impeccable, unlike yours,” I tease. Her jaw drops, and she pokes my shoulder. The tension between us lifts with her playfulness. “I find it more considerate to keep the radio off when I have someone with me.”
“That’s oddly thoughtful,” she says.
I cut her a side-eye that has her laughing. The sound of it loosens something inside my chest.
“Where are we going?” she asks, running her fingers through her long locks as she plays with her hair.
“My place.” Brielle stills, her arm still raised where she’s raking her fingers through her chestnut locks. It isn’t like I’m planning on taking advantage of her. I just feel most relaxed in my own space, but if she’s not comfortable with it, we can go somewhere else. “Is that alright?”
“Um, I guess so. Yeah, sure. I just thought we were going out to dinner again when you mentioned food. Can we stop on the way so I can grab something to eat?”
“I’ll make us dinner.”
Her eyebrows hit her hairline as she stares at me, dumbfounded. The reservation she was feeling seems to slide away. “You can cook?”
“Yes, I can cook. I’m a grown man, Brielle. I know how to feed myself.”
“We’ll see, I guess,” she says skeptically. I’m already running through the various dishes I make regularly to find something that will knock her off her feet. I have this strange urge to impress her, like it matters what she thinks of my cooking skills. After this weekend, we’re never going to speak of this again, so I don’t know why I care what she thinks.
I pull into my reserved parking spot in the parking garage and lead Brielle into the adjoining building and over to the elevator. I plug in the code that unlocks the top-floor access.
“To the penthouse, please,” Brielle says with a fake posh accent.
I hit the button for the twenty-second floor, the highest floor in the building.
“No. I was just joking,” Brielle hisses, swatting at my hand. I shoot her a look, and she picks up what I’m not saying. Her face pales, and she tries to glare at me, but she can’t seem to pull off a mean look, no matter how hard she tries. “You’ve got to me kidding me.”
A smirk tugs at my mouth. Most women are suitably impressed when I bring them to my penthouse suite in the center of the city, or at least they act like it. Not Brielle.
We step off the elevator, and I unlock the door to my suite.
“Wow. I think my entire apartment fits into your kitchen.”
I’m pretty sure my kitchen is bigger, to be honest. But I don’t tell her that.
It’s an open-concept floor plan, so the living room, dining room, and kitchen are all together. Brielle walks over to the large windows in the living room, looking out over the city of Boston.
“Make yourself comfortable. I’ll make dinner. Is shrimp okay?”
