CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Lukas
Winston had been flummoxed—thatwas the best way to describe it—after I’d explained that Sam would be coming by more often since we were seeing each other. He’d no doubt had a million questions, but his professionalism hadn’t allowed him to pry.
Sam and I entered my house, welcomed with soft lighting, a crackling fire, and low classical music.
“Are you hungry?” I asked, but he shook his head. “Wine, perhaps?” I took his hand in mine and moved to the love seat where Winston had set up two goblets and had a bottle chilling.
“I’m not a big drinker, but I’d like to try it.” Sam sat beside me, and I pulled the bottle out of the ice and read the label.
“Pavillon Blanc du Chateau Margaux, 2005…Winston has good taste.” It was an expensive bottle, but it felt right sharing this with Sam.
“I have no idea what you just said, but you can speak French to me anytime.” He giggled.
I smiled as I poured a tiny bit into Sam’s goblet.
“Uh…” He brought it closer to his face. “When I said I wasn’t much of a drinker and that I’d try, I meant more than a teardrop amount.”
“It’s to taste. “I chuckled. “See if it’s to your liking.”
“Oh.” He took the sip, no grace about it, swallowed, and then stared at me. “S’good.”
“Good?” Smirking, I poured more into his glass.
“I mean, it’s delicious, amazing, thirst quenching.” He took another sip. “Mmm.”
I bit my lip to hold in my laughter. “You’re a delight, Sam.”
“Really?”
“Yes. You see the world in a way I haven’t in a very long time.”
He cocked his head. “I know you’re older than me, but you aren’t that much older to be so cynical of everything.”
I wanted to tell Sam the truth, craved it. But it wasn’t allowed unless he and I were committed to becoming eternal companions. So ridiculous. How was I to know if he’d want that unless I told him?
“I’ve seen a lot, Sam. It changes you.”
He shrugged. “I get it.”
I wasn’t sure he did, but I didn’t want to have a discussion that would likely turn into an argument.
“Tell me something about yourself, Lukas. I feel like we barely know each other.”
“What would you like to know?”
He pursed his lips for a beat. “Tell me about your parents.”
“Well, they’ve passed, I think I told you that. It was a long time ago. My father was a shoemaker and my mother a seamstress.”
“A shoemaker and a seamstress, so they were in the fashion industry?”
It was hard not to tell him that no, in fact, my father had made shoes on the streets, tossing them into a wagon and selling them for whatever he could fetch. And my mother had made dresses and such for food. It wasn’t a glamourous story.
“Yes.”
“Wow, that’s so cool.”
