“Who lives here?”
“You do. For now.” He rolled up his window and pulled into the hedge-lined drive where we waited for the garage door to open. “But otherwise, my parents.”
My heart dropped. I did not want to be under the same roof as the stern woman who’d refused to provide me with more security when my life was in danger.
“Relax,” Bray said, reading it on my face. “They aren’t home. They hardly stay here. My mom mainly lives in their house by the station in Oakland, and my dad is there too, when he’s not traveling. This place is the most secure building in the Bay, and if she’s not going to reassign us, then she has to sacrifice her spare home. Not that I told her about it.” His lips turned up into a pleased little grin.
I couldn’t help grinning back. “You rebel.”
He parked in the garage, and we climbed out into a sterile white space. He used another keypad at the door to access the house, and I could only imagine how secure a DSA director’s personal home was. She probably had a panic room and a closet full of guns.
The thought terrified and thrilled me.
“What does your dad do that has him traveling so much?” I asked as we stepped into a glacial-white kitchen with a soaring ceiling. Little pendant lights popped on above a tall bar with stools and spilled a soft gold into the room.
“He’s an architect,” Bray answered. “Renovated this place himself.” His voice echoed up into the vaulted space above us.
I smoothed my hand over an icy granite counter and walked to the room’s end. It spilled into a living room with low-profile furniture, also white, and an enormous window taking up a whole wall. I gasped at the view.
The Richmond-San Rafael Bridge spanned the water like a mighty gray bow in the distance. Cargo ships moved slowly toward port. Lights dotted the hills in the distance. And to the north, the ugly stone prison that housed my father snagged my gaze like a tear in an otherwise perfect oil painting.
I immediately turned away from it and back toward Bray. “Hell of a view,” I said, and tried to ignore the wound pulsing at the back of my mind. What a terrible coincidence our parents “lived” so close together.
“You haven’t seen the best part yet,” Bray said and nodded at the back wall, but I didn’t turn back around. Behind him, built into the kitchen cabinetry, was an impressive wine collection. I rarely drank, unless the job called for it, but after the day I’d had, a glass didn’t sound so bad. Especially if my new living quarters had landed me closer to my father than I’d been in a decade.
“Could I have a drink?” I asked and pointed at the cabinet.
He turned to see what I’d pointed to. “Uh, sure,” he said with a moment’s hesitation.
“You already broke into their house. You think they’re going to care if you raid the liquor cabinet too?” I said with a sly grin.
He smirked back with an irresistible twist of his lips. “It’s less that and more drinking on the job.”
“I won’t tell anyone,” I said and made the motion of turning a key in front of my lips.
“You are a vault, after all.”
“A vault who likes rich reds.” I pointed at the cabinet.
“As you wish,” he said, and opened the glass pane. I made no comment when he grabbed two glasses and set them on the counter. The bottle he picked out looked expensive. I watched him twist a corkscrew and work the cork out with a squeakypop.He still wore his T-shirt, so his corded forearms were on full display and putting on a show.
I took a healthy gulp when he handed me a glass. “This is delicious.”
“My parents have good taste,” he said with a knowing nod. “Come here. I’ll show you the best part of this place.” He nodded at the back wall again, and I feared his plan involved going outside to gaze at the view.
“Won’t it be cold out there?” I tried to protest. With most of the day passed at this point, the sun had sunk behind the hill and left the east-facing side of the condo in the shade.
“I’ll grab you a sweater,” he said with an enthusiasm suggesting he liked playing host. He set his wine on the island and trotted off toward a sleek hallway. The whole condo was sleek. The marble floor, the white walls and furniture, the minimalist design with splashes of color. Given its location, his parents must have paid a fortune for it.
“Do you have a room here?” I asked in his direction and gulped more wine. It went down like a silk ribbon.
“Not officially, but I keep some stuff in the guest room just in case I stay over.” He reappeared with a pair of sweaters: the cream cable knit cardigan he’d pulled over his T-shirt, and its gray twin, which he handed to me.
I froze for a second at the sight of him looking coastal chic. Like he’d walked out of a catalog of gorgeous men wearing thick sweaters and posing in the misty trees. “Thank you.” It took me a moment to find my voice. His sweater, of course, swallowed me whole when I put it on, and of course smelled like mint and soap, and of course I wanted to curl up and drown in it.
Instead of me dying in cable-knit man heaven, he led us through a sliding glass door and onto the patio off the living room. A sectional sofa hugged a long, narrow stone fire feature sparkling with blue crystal glass. A line of flame leapt to life when Bray flipped a switch.
“Not bad, huh?” he said and gestured toward the sofa.
