We climbed the few steps to the front door, and Chase fumbled with his keys for a second. I hid a grin as his hands trembled before he managed to get the door open.
The insidewas exactly what I expected, yet somehow better.
The open living space with exposed brick on one wall—a nod to Ybor’s cigar factory history—made the compact space feel somehow large and expansive. Hardwood floors that probably cost more than my car gleamed in the track lighting. At the far end, a kitchen was filled with stainless steel appliances and granite countertops that looked like they’d never been used for actual cooking. The whole place was meticulously clean in that way that suggested either Chase had a cleaning service or never had time to make a mess.
“This is—” I started.
“Too much?” Chase tossed his keys into a small wooden bowl on a table by the door. He looked uncertain, like he was seeing his own place through my eyes and worried about my judgment.
“I was going to say nice. I mean, really nice.” I looked around, taking it in. “Do you live here, or is this just where you sleep between work shifts?”
“A bit of both.” Chase shrugged. “I’ve been here six months. It still feels like a hotel sometimes.”
There were no photos on the walls, no throw pillows or decorative nonsense. Everything was clean, modern, and functional space that could’ve belonged to anyone.
“It suits you,” I said.
“Is that a compliment?”
“It’s an observation. It’s very organized and put-together. It says, ‘I’m a professional adult who has his life together.’”
“I don’t have my life together.”
“You have granite countertops. That’s basically the same thing.”
Chase laughed, and some of the nervousness melted away.
“Make yourself at home. I’m going to run upstairs to the bathroom. There’s wine in the rack below the counter if you’d like a drink. Glasses are above the island.”
Chase bounded up stairs whose railing was a series of black cables running at a diagonal parallel from the bottom post to somewhere above, adding yet another modern touch to an already very modern home. I scanned bookshelves that covered every inch of one wall, finding two books, one faux crystal ball, and a bobblehead of the Tampa Bay Bucs quarterback. There must’ve been room for a thousand books on that wall, and he had two. That had to be a crime against humanity.
The sound of water flowing through pipes drew my gaze to the ceiling, where exposed pipes painted white blended into the ceiling. The water didn’t stopas it would with a toilet flush. If anything, it changed pitch, as though the hot water had been added to the cold.
“Is he taking a shower?” I asked the crystal ball.
It didn’t reply.
Unsure what else to do, I made my way into the kitchen. Below the granite-topped island was a wine rack beside a wine fridge. Both were filled with bottles whose end labels were aligned, perfectly rotated to be read. Either he didn’t drink his own grape juice or he was insanely diligent in replacing a bottle the moment he emptied one. I’d met guys with a touch of OCD, but this was compulsive behavior at an Olympic level.
Curious, I opened a drawer.
It was filled with silverware.
Normal people had little holders in which they tossed clean silverware, fresh from the dishwasher. I, like the rest of “normal” America, kept my short forks separate from my long forks, which remained separate from my spoons, and so on.
But Chase . . .
Holy shit.
Chase had his forks stacked so neatly I almost thought they were bound somehow. The spoons were likewise stacked to perfection. The knives, unwilling to stack per Daddy’s instructions, had theirown independent tray that was skinnier than the others, forcing them to attention in a perfect pile.
I couldn’t decide whether to be impressed or freaked out by the serial killer nature of what lay before me.
I closed the drawer and squatted to look at the wine. Pinot noir called to me, so I grabbed a bottle and set it on the counter. I had to open three more drawers before finding the corkscrew. By the time Chase’s bare feet slapped the wood of the stairs, I was sipping a deliciously nutty wine.
“Find everything okay?” Chase asked as his feet, then legs, then the rest of him descended the stairs. A large towel was wrapped about his waist, and he was drying his hair with a hand towel. His bare chest and torso glistened as he rounded the bottom of the stairs and turned toward me.
“Uh, yeah, sure.” I tripped over my own tongue at the sight of rounded shoulders and a dusting of brackish hair coating his bare chest and abs. He wasn’t ripped like many of the gym bunnies in town, but his muscle was compact and lean, with the hint of a few abs struggling to be seen.
