“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“How did you know how to make it?”
She refreshed her own mug. “Paying attention to what people like is kind of my job.” She slid the carafe back onto its base. “Although I will admit that I don’t generally remember how people like their coffee.”
“So, what? I’m a special case?” He didn’t sound like he minded that idea at all.
“Maybe.” She was flirting again. This had to stop. She opened the fridge door and peered inside. “Meredith has no food. Do you think it’s safe for us to go into town? Maybe grab a pizza from Lionel? Oh, and my ice cream. I need to pick up my ice cream. And—”
“Bronwyn?”
She closed the refrigerator a little harder than she’d intended and everything inside rattled. She leaned against it. “Oops.”
Mo studied her. “Are you okay?”
“Of course I’m okay,” she said in a voice a full octave higher than her usual pitch. She cleared her throat to try again. “Right as rain. Fit as a fiddle. Why do you ask?”
Mo shrugged. “No reason.” A smile tugged at his lips.
He took her hand and pulled her along, out of Meredith’s home and toward his. “What are you doing?”
“Fixing you lunch.”
Mo opened the door to his house, and Bronwyn stepped in for the first time. His tiny home was laid out just like Cal’s. There was a narrow staircase on one wall that led to a loft. His kitchen was small but functional. But where Cal’s place had a sofa and a small but functional living space, Mo had ... a desk.
A massive desk filled the space. Four computer monitors sat angled around a chair that looked like it had given inspiration to the designers of a space opera. A cozy chair with a soft blanket, a small ottoman, and a reading lamp were the only concession to comfort or relaxation.
The space was all Mo.
And it was all wrong.
He waved a hand around the room. “Make yourself at home. There’s a chair.” He opened his refrigerator and pulled out two glass casserole dishes. “We have options. Chicken supreme or lasagna. Which do you want?”
“Chicken supreme, please,” she answered without looking. She was too busy studying his decor. Photos lined the wall. Each one had a modern feel, the subject matter was eclectic, and they were all in black and white.
The sound of spoons on glass filled the air as Mo filled plates and slid them into the microwave. “It would taste better if we heated it up in the oven, but I’m getting antsy.”
So was she. But she’d bet it wasn’t for the same reason. Everything she saw was monotone. Black, white, and every shade of gray.
Was this how Mo lived? All day long, in front of computer screens, in a tiny space devoid of anything bright?
And then, on the refrigerator, she saw a splash of color. Wild, vibrant, completely chaotic. She recognized the artist, and once she saw it, she noticed more evidence of the artist’s touch. A potholder in a garish neon orange. A frame on the desk with pressed leaves inside. Another frame held a collage of photos with Mo and the artist. Their smiles lit the room and soothed the ache in her chest. A small vase with a few lumps, the hallmark of a novice potter, held a bold red poppy made with Meredith’s signature style.
“You’ve been in the dark too long, Mo.” The words were out before she could censor herself.
“Yeah. Eliza has made it her mission to add color to my house. I don’t care, really. Or, I didn’t care. I didn’t notice. I was in a fog for a long time. But the first time Eliza was here, she told me it was scary and she didn’t like black.”
“So you told her she could redecorate.” Bronwyn could imagine that conversation.
“Not exactly.” Mo pointed to the pictures on his fridge. “I told her I’d put up anything as long as she made it. There was a stretch where she got a little aggressive with it. I had to put a limit on the number of drawings I could display. We agreed that the fridge could be a rotating installation. I have all previous drawings in a book in my room.”
He pointed to the bathroom. “I did let her redecorate the bathroom. She’s her mother’s daughter. There’s art in her soul.”
Bronwyn peeked into the small room and laughed. “I’d spend all my time in here.” The palette was gentle but masculine. Pale blueon the walls. A boldly patterned bath rug in front of the shower. Multihued towels on the racks. The space was cohesive and bright.
“She’s trying to convince me to let her do the rest of the space. She and Abby are working on me.”
“What are you waiting on?”
