Why Not Tonight. Сьюзен Мэллери
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“I’ll bet.” She slid off the stool. “What’s for dinner?”
“A chicken casserole left by the service. I have ingredients for salad.”
“No, thanks. I’m not really a big fan of lettuce. Dressing I love, but I try to avoid it except on special occasions.” She walked over to the refrigerator, pulled open the door and peered inside. “Yay, look!” She held up a tube. “Fresh baked biscuits. Okay, not exactly homemade, but close enough and very delicious.” She glanced at the stove. “You even have two ovens, so I can bake these at the same time. It’s a sign.”
“Obviously.”
He got out a cookie sheet for her, then went to the far side of the island to watch her work. Not counting the housekeeping service, she was the first woman he’d had in this house. More proof that he was pathetic, but still true.
He’d thought when he moved to Happily Inc that he would be able to put his past behind him and start being himself again. He hadn’t realized he’d simply dragged it with him and had been dealing with it—or not dealing with it—ever since. He hadn’t been in anything close to a relationship for nearly four years. He was cut off from everyone he cared about and he couldn’t work.
Despite everything, he laughed out loud.
Natalie pushed up her red glasses and glanced at him. “I wasn’t talking, so I know I didn’t make a joke. Are you hearing voices and are they funny? Although humorous voices would be better than ones telling you to start killing people.” She paused. “Oh, can you see dead people?”
“Only on alternate Wednesdays.”
“I’m not keen on the whole seeing-dead-people thing, although I would like to communicate with my mom. I lost her when I was twenty.”
“I’m sorry.” He hadn’t known, but then, he knew very little about Natalie. She was a part-time artist, part-time office manager, and after that, he had nothing.
“Me, too.” She checked the timer for the casserole, then slid the biscuits into the second oven. “This is going to be delicious.” She paused. “Oh, did you want salad? I can make you some.”
“I’m good.” He shifted and reached for the door to the built-in wine cellar, then held up a bottle. “Interested?”
Her mouth curved into a smile. “Yes, please. It looks fancy. I love fancy wine.”
“Because...”
“Because I can’t afford it and it’s fun to have.” She held up her hand. “I know what you’re going to say. That I should prioritize. Not that wine would be a priority, but still.” Her expression turned earnest. “My art is really important to me. I work as much as I need to so I can pay the bills, but all my free time goes into creating. Maybe one day I’ll be able to support myself with what I create, but so far, not so much.” The smile returned. “I’m lucky—I work with paper. It’s a pretty cheap medium. It would be hard if I had to have the equipment you need to sculpt with glass or bronze.” She raised her arm and felt her bicep. “Of course, working with bronze would be a really fun workout.”
He couldn’t begin to know where to start with that info dump. Guilt was overwhelming most of his other emotions. Guilt that he’d been blessed with a selfish bully of a father who had nonetheless gifted him with incredible talent and, more important, had provided a name that had opened doors from the time Ronan had been a teenager. He didn’t have to worry about money or finding people who enjoyed what he created. He was Ronan Mitchell—the world came to him. At least when he let it.
He found himself wanting to buy her a year’s worth of art supplies, or maybe a house so she wouldn’t have to work at the gallery and could devote herself to whatever she wanted, which landed him back firmly in the scary, weird-guy column.
He swore silently. When the roads were clear and he could get to town, he was going to show up to stuff more often. Maybe start meeting women online and take up a hobby. Anything, because in the last couple of hours, he’d been forced to admit he was not good at being human anymore.
WHILE RONAN OPENED a bottle of merlot, Natalie set the table. She waved one of the plates.
“Your brother made these.”
“I know.”
She gave him a slight eye roll. “I meant I’m surprised you have your brother’s dishes in your house.”
She was cute when she was sassy, he thought. Attitude in the face of car loss and being trapped by a storm—he could respect that.
“Why? I like his work and I need dishes.”
“Does he know?”
“I think so.” Did Mathias know Ronan had his dishes? Had he ever said anything? Years ago, they’d been twins and had known everything about each other. Now he was less sure about any of that.
“I’ll mention it when I get back to the office,” she told him. “He’ll want to know.”
Ronan doubted that, but if it made her happy. He crossed to the built-in sound system and turned it on. Soft music filled the room. Natalie listened for a second, then smiled.
“Jazz. I like it.”
“Good.” He poured them wine before they both went into the kitchen to collect dinner.
There were a few minutes of setting out food. Then they sat across from each other at the big dining room table. As he was trying to remember how to make small talk with a woman he found attractive, Natalie looked at him.
“You didn’t have the house built, did you? I mean, parts of it are really you and the style suits you but I’m not sure it’s really, you know, you, if that makes sense.”
“You went exploring?” he asked, his voice teasing.
“Well, yeah. You left me alone for hours. What was I supposed to do?”
“Read?”
“The only books are in your study and I’d never invade your personal space that way.”
He didn’t bother pointing out that to know about his study, she had to go in his study. “I don’t mind you looking around.”
“What if I find something I shouldn’t?”
“You won’t. I have no secrets.”
“Everyone has secrets.”
“What are yours?”
The question seemed to surprise her. “I guess I don’t have any that I can think of. There’s stuff about me you don’t know, but it’s no big deal.”
“Such as?”
She raised her glass. “I really like fancy wine.”
He grinned.
“So the house,” she prompted. “How’d you get it?”
“I bought it. The place was partially finished when I first saw it. The owners had an odd construction style, almost completing it room by room rather than all at once.”
“I knew it.” She pointed her fork at him. “You didn’t furnish this room at all, did you? Because while it’s really nice, this is not your style. I see you more modern—more clean lines, with glass and metal. This furniture is too heavy for you.”
“I never much thought about it.”
“That’s because you’re a guy.”
He looked around the dining room and realized he didn’t much care for the big pieces, especially the hutch.
“The