Once he stepped inside, Nick held out the flowers and the bottle of wine he’d tucked under his arm. “I couldn’t decide on what to bring, so I went with both,” he said.
“I won’t complain about that,” Harlow said, admiring the flowers. “They’re gorgeous. And I’ve never met a wine I didn’t like. Let me go chill this and put these flowers in a vase.”
“Something smells great,” Nick said, inhaling the wonderful aroma as he trailed after her down the hall. Harlow must be a world-class cook. He couldn’t identify the spices floating through the air, but he knew it was a blend of several. Saffron. Curry. Chili. Paprika. Nick couldn’t wait to find out. His stomach was doing somersaults in anticipation.
The kitchen was nice and airy, with large windows that he imagined let in plenty of sunshine in the daytime. Everything looked nice and tidy, considering Harlow had cooked dinner for them. The color scheme was white and taupe, with gleaming silver-colored appliances.
“Let me show you around,” Harlow said, leading him toward the living room.
Nick looked around him at the beautiful decor. The place looked fantastic. “Was this fully furnished when you moved in?”
“Yes, but I added a few touches, such as the loveseat and ottoman, as well as the curtains and most of the paintings on the walls.”
“You’ve really created a nice home away from home for yourself,” Nick said approvingly.
“Thank you. Art is such a personal thing, so I packaged up my favorites from home and shipped them here. I didn’t want to be apart from them for a solid year.”
Nick stopped in front of an oversized painting of a beautiful jungle. The colors jumped out at him—reds, violets, yellows, purples. “This one is incredible.”
A radiant grin spread over Harlow’s face. “That’s Malcolm’s work. I have a few more of his upstairs, but this one is my favorite.”
Nick let out a low whistle. “He’s incredibly talented.” Malcolm Jones. He ran a hand over his face. He hadn’t even made the connection until right now. “I should have placed the name. We went to his exhibit in Boston a few years ago. I’m kicking myself for not investing in one of his paintings back then.”
“He’s really been on the rise in the last few years,” Harlow said. “His prices have skyrocketed, which is a bummer for those trying to acquire his work, but I’m so happy for him. He’s worked so hard to get to where he is.” An abundance of pride rang out in Harlow’s voice.
Harlow led him upstairs to show him the remainder of Malcolm’s paintings. They were bold and dynamic, each one more stunning than the next.
Nick looked around to see if Harlow had a candle burning. An acrid odor was now swirling around in the air, replacing the heavenly aroma that he’d first smelled. The sound of Bear barking from downstairs echoed throughout the house.
“Bear! What’s going on?” Harlow called out.
Nick suspected that Bear might be trying to tell her something.
“Harlow, you might want to check your stove. Something smells like it’s burning.”
***
“Noooooo,” Harlow shrieked as she bolted down the stairs, her shoes sliding across the hardwood floors. She had to catch herself so she didn’t fall and land on her butt. The minute she rounded the corner and crossed the kitchen threshold she saw smoke filling up the room.
“Good grief,” she said as she grabbed oven mitts and opened the stove door. Smoke blasted her in the face and she swatted it away with her hands.
“Do you have a fire extinguisher?” Nick shouted from behind her.
“Under the sink,” she said, coughing as the smoke fog enveloped her. Her dish was literally on fire inside the stove.
Just as she moved to pull the tray of seafood paella out of the oven, Nick sprayed it with the extinguisher. “Don’t take it out, Harlow. You’re going to burn yourself. Just shut the door.”
Harlow did as Nick instructed, then turned off the oven.
“Why didn’t the smoke detector go off?” she asked, looking up at the ceiling. Just then it began to blare like a siren. “Of course,” Harlow said. “Now it wants to warn me.”
“I’m going to open the back door and a few windows,” Nick said before disappearing.
Maybe this was karma. She hadn’t cooked a single morsel of the seafood paella. A few hours ago she had picked it up in town at a fancy-schmancy restaurant.
“I think it’s safe to say that dinner is charbroiled. What was it anyway?”
“Seafood paella,” Harlow said. “Exquisitely cooked seafood paella.” She wasn’t responsible for making the dish, but a gourmet chef at L’etoile restaurant in town had done the deed. All she’d done was pick up the order and put it in the oven. She had no idea what had happened. Not a clue. Now she would have to call a service person to come by and check the oven.
