Directly ahead of me are a wall of windows, a door in between them, overlooking a wooded backyard, past a covered, in-ground pool. It’s dark out, but the outdoor floodlights are on, and I see a hot tub on the expansive deck, and a grill, too.
To my right is the kitchen space, lots of counters, a gas stove, a little area with a coffeeandespresso machine. Deep sinks, many cabinets, the fridge door clutter-free except for a plain calendar magnetized on it.
And Faust, his back to me as he cracks eggs into a bowl.
There’s an enormous glass beer mug with what I think is something in German etched onto it, whisks and wooden spoons and such inside.
Above the stove is a large glass window, looking into the forest.
It’s cozy here, despite the fact it’s so pristine.
To my left is a living room, couches and chairs and a coffee table clustered before a fireplace, more art on the walls, candles along the fireplace mantel.
And beyond that, another exit that looks onto a patch of grass, but there’s so much glass that seems to allow the outdoor space inside, it feels freeing, in a way. Not just another house in the Toronto suburbs.
“Do you mind if we listen to music?” Faust asks without looking at me. He’s pulling a stainless steel pan from a large drawer beneath the coffee station.
“This is your castle,” I say back with a smile in my words.
He glances at me over one shoulder, sweater tightening around his muscles. “Yeah, but you’re my guest.”
I smile despite myself. “Aren’t we here to talk murder mysteries?”
“We’ll get there.”
And a few minutes later, as he’s letting the first pancake cook in the pan, jazz filters through some unseen speakers, the sound low but high-quality.
“Do you need me to do anything?” I ask, my Southern manners kicking in now that I’ve come to terms with the fact I’m in this man’s house. Alone.
“Do you want to set the table?” Something about the way he asks so casually, without looking at me, it makes it feel like we’ve done this dozens of times before.
“Of course.” I slide down from my perch on the stool and he points to where the plates are, which is in the cabinet directly next to him.
I sidle by, but his arm grazes my shoulder as he flips a pancake. I try to ignore the electric touch, then reach in for plates, setting a larger, white one down in front of him so he can place the pancakes on it.
I take two more in hand, then walk around him to the coffee station, opening up the top drawer.
I guessed right.
Cutlery.
I grab forks and a couple of butter knives just in case, shut the drawer with my hip, and ask where he wants to eat. I noticed a dining room on the opposite side of the liquor cabinet, but there’s also the enormous island.
“You choose,” he says.
I pick the island so I’m not wandering around his house being nosy, thinking about how many other women he’s had over and cooked for.
Berating myself silently for caring at all. I mean, I don’t, of course, but I’m curious.
And when we’ve sat down beside one another and he’s put two plain pancakes on my plate—mirroring Cynthia’s work from over the weekend—and he has a stack of five chocolate chip ones on his, both of us with orange juice in short glasses in front of us, I know it’s time to talk.
Of all things to start with, I say, as he cuts into his pancakes, “I’ll do the dishes when we’re done.”
I’m mortified by those words because it makes me sound like I’m trying to be his fake wife or something, and I immediately shove a forkful of syrupy, buttery pancake into my mouth as he looks up at me, surprised.
Fuck.
I didn’t want to eat, and definitely not this because it’ll bloat me, but I have no choice now that it’s in my mouth anddamn,it is fucking delicious. No offense to Cyn, but these are perfect.
