“He died,” I confirmed. “Heart failure. It was…we didn’t know.”
“I’m sorry.” Smith squeezed my hand, and I glanced up to find his eyes focused on me, searching my face.
“His life insurance bought the building,” I said. “It’s all him.”
“It’s you,” he corrected, “because of him.”
My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. “That’s one way to look at it.”
“It doesn’t bother me that you loved someone before me,” he said next.
“I never thought it would. That’s not what I…” I stopped myself from saying more, needing to better understand my own motivation. What even was the point of dumping my past onto Smith when we were meant to be having a nice dinner and getting to know each other? But then again, how could he get to know me without understanding what Ev had meant to my life?
Clearing my throat, I tried again, “He’s not a specter. It’s not like I’m haunted by him.”
“But he’s in all things,” Smith said. “That’s expected.”
“Is it?”
“For other people, maybe not. For you?” He arched a brow, reached for his wine with his free hand. We were still holding hands.
“Why me?” I asked.
“Your passion is in everything you do,” he said simply. “Your shop, your art, your body. The rest of it…”
I cocked my head to the side.
“You’re an open book,” he said. “At least, your heart is. Thank you for letting me know, and if you ever want to talk about him, I’m happy to listen.”
“It doesn’t bother you?”
Smith leveled me with an unimpressed look that confirmed no, it didn’t bother him.
“I don’t know what kind of men you normally date?—”
“I don’t,” I told him, because it felt important. “I don’t normally date.”
“No?”
I shook my head.
“What then?” he asked.
“Sometimes I’ll play at the club.” I leaned in closer so I could lower my voice, and Smith matched my energy, coming in close enough that I could have kissed him if I wanted to. “I like to watch, and sometimes that’s enough. If I ever do more…I don’t bring people home, and I certainly…”
“Don’t let them spend the night,” he guessed.
“And I don’t take them to dinner,” I said.
Smith huffed a breath out his nose. “Should I feel special?”
“Very.”
Something in my face must have translated my seriousness because Smith’s expression sobered. He leaned back and nodded, flexing his fingers around the side of my hand. We were still holding hands.
“I do,” he said.
Smith studied me like I was something to be learned, and it wasn’t a stretch to picture him bent over a drafting table, pencil hanging out of his mouth while his fingers traced over thin blue lines that told the story of buildings older than him. He was not without his demons, but he was an old soul in a young body, and all anyone had to do to see him was stop and look. The way Smith had come apart for me in the bathroom, in the shower, in my bed, he was begging for someone to simply take the time to understand him beyond his name and his job and the role he played in his family.
