Читать книгу Damaged Hearts - Jan St. Marcus - Страница 10

I faintly hear the sound of a shower running as I return to the kitchen and begin poking at the fruit he’s laid out for me. Bananas, apple slices, strawberries, blueberries, and a side dish of some sort of granola stuff. It’s probably the most nutritious meal I’ve had in a while. I mean, the breakfast was good and all, but bacon and eggs are not all that good for you, right? But this—this is some next-level nutritious shit. And seeing how he was working out, I’m thinking that this granola must be some sort of superfood or something. I just get the idea that the guy knows how to take care of that body of his. As I’m sitting in that really comfortable bar stool with the memory foam and munching on my breakfast . . . wait, at two in the afternoon, is it still breakfast? Is it brunch? Can I call it brunch? Now there’s a word I can get my head around: brunch. The “br” from breakfast and the “unch” from lunch. Makes perfect sense. I like it when things make sense. And speaking of making sense, there’s still a part of me telling me that this whole thing doesn’t make sense. But before I get myself sidetracked too much, I pull my eyes around the breakfast bar and begin to notice the house for the first time. I was so blown away by the events of last night and I was half-blind with hunger so I didn’t really see much.

My gaze is drawn to the oversized picture window that overlooks the beach from the living room. The floors are this really light-colored wood that runs the entire length of the place, and there are these really plush-looking throw rugs in various areas. In the living room, there is this cream-colored couch, loveseat, and recliner arranged so they face the beach. Modern sculptures are sprinkled around, and there’s a really cool, shiny, modern painting that looks like it’s fourteen feet wide and almost ten feet tall. The ceiling is really tall. Between the kitchen and the living room is a small little nook that I guess would be the dining room. Not a formal dining room with a huge table or anything, just a glass tabletop and four white leather chairs. There’s a strip of blue material running the length of the table and on top of that is a stainless-steel bowl full of oranges. I kind of chuckle to myself, thinking that this is some kind of designer’s touch. I mean, anywhere else and I would have thought that some rich douchebag’s wife probably saw it in a magazine and spent like a thousand dollars paying someone to arrange the oranges so that they were “just right” or some bullshit, but right here, right now, knowing the little bit I know about Michelangelo, it looks cool.

I turn back to the bar and take another few bites and look into the kitchen. It too is modern. The appliances are matte black, which I’ve never really seen before, and the cabinets have that same matte finish, well sort of. They’re kind of shiny, but not really. I don’t know—maybe they’re between matte black and shiny black—what do you call that? Fuck if I know. But it looks really cool with the gray marble counters and gray walls. Oh, and the whole place is absolutely spotless. If I hadn’t actually been here last night, I would think that this was a model home or something. I think about this and realize that if I hadn’t been here last night, I wouldn’t be here today, and I would never have seen the inside of this house at all. I would be wandering up the boardwalk, trying to figure out where my next meal was going to come from. What am I doing? What was I talking about? Oh yeah, the kitchen. Spotless. I pluck a blueberry from the bowl and study it. It’s a really plump one and it has that matte-looking texture on the skin and a bit of it is kind of shiny ’cause it’s wet and I can see the rugged part at the top where the stem was attached and I’m kind of amazed that they taste so delicious. Kind of tart and kind of sweet. And as I’m contemplating whether to eat the whole thing or bite it in half and study the inside, movement from my left catches my attention and I turn to see— Holy shit!

It’s Michelangelo and I swear, if I wasn’t sure I was kind of sane, I’d think I had walked into the pages of a fashion magazine! Okay, I know that last night I thought he was gorgeous, but then I thought that might be overstating things, but now I’m absolutely fucking sure that he is gorgeous as fuck. He’s wearing black jeans that are straight-legged, but not those ridiculous skinny things that the hipsters wear. And the legs are kind of tucked into the top of his leather boots and he’s got this off-white button-up shirt that hugs his muscles, but not like he’s showing off. They reveal enough to let everyone know he’s got a great body, but it’s not like he’s screaming for attention. And he’s got a black leather messenger bag just thrown over his shoulder like it’s no big deal. And here’s the thing—as good as he looks, something about the way he stands there looking at me gives me the impression that he just threw this stuff on without giving a second thought as to how he looks. Damn. And his eyes are blazing that hypnotic bright gray and his hair is short, but it’s just long enough to reveal these curly waves that hug the curves of his head. He smiles and I about melt.

“I’ll be back in an hour or two. If you’re up for it, maybe we’ll go get you some clothes or something. Sound good?”

I catch myself still staring and realize that he’s waiting for me to say something. “Huh?”

He laughs and puts an iPad in front of me. “I set up a profile for you so you can connect to the world if you want. I took Sparky out a little while ago, so he’ll be fine. See you in a bit.”

“Where is Sparky, anyway?”

“He’s sleeping in the office. If you want to listen to music or anything, it’s all controlled on the iPad. And if you leave, the doors lock automatically, so you won’t be able to get back in till I get home. Is that all right?”

“I’m literally not going anywhere,” I say emphatically.

“Cool. Later.” And he’s gone again. A minute later, I hear this deep, throaty rumble from the garage and, a moment after that, the rumbling peaks and begins to grow distant. I realize that I’m alone again. I run my fingers up to the edge of my lips to make sure that what I think I feel is actually real: yep, I’m smiling. I realize that I’ve smiled more in the last twelve hours than I’ve smiled in the last twelve months.