Читать книгу Why Not Tonight - Susan Mallery, Susan Mallery - Страница 11
ОглавлениеRONAN SEEMED UNABLE to grasp the glory of the moment, so Natalie stopped trying to explain it. Losing her car was fantastic, but if he couldn’t see it that way, then she would be happy on her own.
“I emailed the county while you were in the bathroom,” he told her. “I should hear back on the status of the roads in the next hour or so, but if those trees fell, I’m sure others did, too.”
“So I’m stuck,” she said, turning the idea over in her mind. “Is that going to freak you out?”
One corner of his mouth turned up. “I’m not easily freaked.”
“Then I guess we’re good.” She wasn’t worried about staying with Ronan. He was basically a good guy, and they had food and a generator, so she would be fine.
He showed her the laundry room, which was so much nicer than the one in her apartment building.
“I can figure it out,” she told him, eyeing the sheets in the dirty clothes hamper by the shiny, front-loading machine. “I’ll use those to make a load. I’ll be fine, if you want to go, um, work.”
He studied her for a second, then nodded. “I’ll be in my studio for a couple of hours,” he told her. “Then we can figure out what to have for dinner.”
She’d just had soup and crackers, so wouldn’t be hungry for a while. Not that she wasn’t always up for a meal, but still. “Sounds great.”
She watched him leave, put her sopping clothes into the washer, added the sheets and detergent, then started the cycle. Only then did she wonder if he really was going to work. Lately he hadn’t been producing. She didn’t know if she was the only one to notice, or if his brothers had, as well. She wondered if the lack of work was the reason Ronan had been so withdrawn over the past few months. To be as gifted and incredible as he was and then to not be able to work would be... Honestly, she couldn’t imagine. Maybe the saddest thing ever. To have that creative gift taken away was the definition of cruelty.
The front-loading washer door locked into place. She watched it for a second, realized there was a timer that told her she had forty-seven minutes until the cycle was over and knew there was no way she could stay here watching laundry wash.
The right thing to do would be to quietly sit somewhere, minding her own business, maybe playing a game on her phone, but the burning need to explore the huge, intriguing house was so much more appealing. She wouldn’t go anywhere too personal, she promised herself. A quick tour of mostly public spaces should be okay.
She retraced her steps through the kitchen and into the entryway, wanting to start at the beginning. The double front doors were huge. They looked as if they’d been reclaimed from some castle teardown, not that they had many of those in the southwestern part of the country. She ran her hands over the wood and briefly imagined barbarians using a battering ram to break down the door.
The foyer itself was large and circular. A massive chandelier hung from the ceiling two stories up. It seemed to be from the same design era as the front doors—wrought iron and glass twisted into a medieval feel. To her right was a staircase hugging the curved wall. Beyond that was a hallway. To her left was a shorter hallway leading to the kitchen-slash-family room, and there was a half-open door straight across from her. Inside was a very prosaic but necessary powder room.
She headed down the hallway to the right. It led to a beautiful formal dining room with a big table and eight chairs. Ronan wasn’t the type to host a dinner party and she couldn’t imagine him buying the furniture. Had the house been furnished when he’d bought it?
She went back into the kitchen. It was just plain big. Starkly modern with stainless-steel appliances all in fancy brands like Sub-Zero and Wolf and gorgeous quartz countertops. The backsplash was done in swirling glass tiles that morphed from gray to blue to green to yellow and back to gray. The shapes fit together like a puzzle, and depending on where she stood, the colors seemed to blend and merge or stand out on their own. What on earth?
“Duh,” she murmured to herself as she pressed her hands against the cool-to-the-touch backsplash. Ronan was a gifted glass artist. He would have made the tiles himself.
The glass door to the pantry had an inset that matched. She saw a built-in wine cellar that was filled, and plenty of cupboard space. After glancing over her shoulder to make sure she was still alone, she opened one of the cupboards and saw a stack of dishes. Nothing noteworthy. Everyone had dishes. Only these were special.
She picked up one of the plates and studied it. The pattern—one that was similar to the backsplash—was unfamiliar, but she recognized the work. Mathias, Ronan’s brother, had made them. Mathias sold all kinds of dishes, serving pieces, light pendants and blown-glass sinks. As the part-time office manager, she cataloged his work, but she’d never seen these before. Had he made them specially for his brother, and if so, when had that happened? While they weren’t estranged exactly, she couldn’t imagine Ronan asking for something like this.
She put back the dish and turned to the family room. It was definitely a man’s room—the large black sectional faced a movie-theater-size television. There were a few pictures on the wall but what really got her attention was the wooden carved bear in the corner. It was life-size and incredibly realistic. The only thing that kept it from being terrifying was the cup of coffee it held in one paw. She moved closer and saw a plaque at the bottom that read Vern.
Natalie laughed, then touched the wood. She knew the artist of the carved bear as well as she knew the maker of the dishes. Nick was a third Mitchell brother.
She had to admit she was confused. She would swear that Ronan was almost entirely disconnected from his brothers. He barely spoke to them when he was in the gallery workshop and he was spending more and more time up here, on his own. Yet he had their work in his house.
She walked back to the foyer and debated the stairs or the longer hallway. The curved staircase was too intriguing to be ignored, so she went upstairs and found herself in what she assumed was a guest room. There was a queen-size bed, a dresser with a TV on top, a small desk and an adjoining bathroom stocked with basic supplies.
She tried not to shriek when she saw herself in the mirror. Her hair had curled as it dried and was now a bouncing riot of brown ringlets. Oh, to have her blow-dryer and some decent styling product.
She went downstairs and headed down the long hall. She came to a study with a big desk and lots of books. No doubt where Ronan liked to sit and count his money, she thought with a grin. She walked out and glanced to her left. There was only one more doorway and she knew it led to the master bedroom. Temptation whispered, but she ignored the voice. She was exploring, not prying. Besides, she’d already caught a glimpse on her way to the bathroom. She knew what it looked like, even though she very much wanted to spend some quality time admiring his roommate, the sprite. Determined to be a courteous guest, she returned to the foyer, grabbed her tote bag and went into the kitchen.
She sat at the table and pulled a flat plastic box from her bag. She opened it, then flipped through the various pieces of square paper until she found a deep green sheet. She studied it for a second, then began to fold the paper.
Less than two minutes later, she’d finished the origami dragon. From the laundry room, the washer beeped that it had completed its cycle. She got up and put her clothes and the sheets in the dryer, then left the small dragon on Ronan’s desk in the study.
Back in the kitchen, she noticed two doors. One led to the garage and the other led to yet another hallway. No, that wasn’t right. It was a covered walkway, but instead of traditional walls, these were made of glass, allowing her to see out into the storm on both sides. The flooring was stone. She sucked in a breath before taking her first step.
As she followed the path, she realized the glass was curved. There was a door at the other end. A door with a lock. She tried the handle and it turned easily, opening to a much smaller foyer. More doors. One stood open; the other was closed. She moved to the open door and stared into sacred space.
Ronan’s workshop was enormous—probably at least a couple thousand square feet. The ceilings soared. There were two ovens, equipment everywhere. Benches, bins, raw material for making glass and, on the wall opposite, a to-scale-size drawing of his current commission.
On the left was a beautiful swan, on the right an equally stunning dragon. The ten feet in between showed one creature transforming into the other. It was magical enough on paper, but the finished product would be done entirely in glass.
There was a similar rendering back in the gallery workshop. She knew parts of it were finished, but not enough, mostly because these days Ronan wasn’t working. Even now, both ovens were cold and dark.
It occurred to her a second too late that coming into the studio uninvited was much more of an intrusion than going into Ronan’s bedroom. He was an artist and this was—
“Natalie?”
She jumped and turned as Ronan approached. He stepped out of the shadows, all handsome and broody.
“Everything all right?” he asked.
He didn’t look mad or concerned about her being in his studio, which was a relief. She managed a smile.
“Yes, I’m doing laundry. It’s going great.” Ack! That was an incredibly inane thing to say, but he’d startled her.
“I talked to the head of the county road crew. The way down the mountain is blocked. They’re going to try to get it cleared as soon as possible, but the storm has to pass first and the main roads will have priority.”
He paused as if waiting for her to react. She replayed his words and realized the significance. She wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
“So I’m stuck. Sorry. You must hate that.”
His expression turned from concerned to quizzical. “You just lost your car and now you can’t go home. You’re the one who gets to be upset.”
“I’m totally fine. The house is great and we have power and food. It’s not a problem. Really.”
“I would have expected more demands.”
She laughed. “From me? Seriously?”
“No, not from you. You always seem to take things in stride. There’s a guest room at the top of the stairs. Make yourself at home.” He hesitated. “I’m sorry I left my phone at the office. I didn’t mean to make you come all this way and then lose your car and get trapped.”
“Let the car go.” She grinned at her own pun. “You know what I mean. It’s really a happy thing. Now I can get a new one. It’s going to be red, that’s for sure. Bright red, if they have one. Anyway, I’ll go get settled.”
“Dinner at seven?” he asked before she left.
“Sure.” For a second she nearly added, “Thank you for asking,” only to stop herself in time. He wasn’t asking her out on a date—he was feeding an uninvited guest. She wasn’t a stranger—they knew each other from work, but she doubted he was superexcited about her presence. The one thing she knew about Ronan for sure was he loved, loved, loved to be alone.
She gave a little wave as she left. She’d had plenty of alone time since she’d lost her mom nearly seven years ago. Alone was something she didn’t like at all. People should be together, preferably surrounded by those they loved. She didn’t have family, but she was doing her best to build one of her own making. Ronan had his brothers so close and yet he rarely spent time with them. Talk about stupid and wasteful.
Not her rock, she told herself. She was a temporary guest, nothing more. He wasn’t interested in her opinion and she wasn’t going to give it. Really.
* * *
RONAN FOUND HIMSELF in the uneasy position of feeling out of place in his own house. He couldn’t believe one petite, unassuming woman could have that much of an impact on him, but although he couldn’t see Natalie or even hear her, knowing she was around was unsettling. He was torn between avoiding her and wanting to find her and...and...
Best not to go there, he told himself. She was his guest. He knew better, which was something because he didn’t seem to know much else.
When had it happened? When had he left the world of normal people and become some kind of misfit recluse? It hadn’t been his plan. When he’d first bought the house, he’d assumed he would have his brothers over all the time to hang out. He’d figured they would come up here to work as a change of pace from Atsuko’s studio. Only none of that had happened. Instead he’d used his house as a retreat, at least at first. Now it was little more than a self-imposed prison.
Which was way too dramatic, he thought as he set out a casserole left by his housekeeping service. It would serve two and looked like something Natalie might like.
He read the label with a list of ingredients and the heating instructions. There was chicken. She ate meat, didn’t she? He was pretty sure he’d seen her devour a hamburger more than once and she’d had no problem with the soup earlier. She’d been at the gallery at least a couple of years. He should know more about her aside from the fact that he thought she was attractive and maybe a little sexy. And he sure as hell shouldn’t be worried about talking to her. Dear God, what was wrong with him? He’d always been the smooth twin when it came to women. He’d been the one to approach the girls in high school, the popular one as he and Mathias had gotten older. But it, like so many things, had been lost. He wasn’t sure when that had happened—he hadn’t been paying attention—but that confidence was gone now.
He turned on one of the two ovens, then returned to the refrigerator and pulled out fixings for salad. Not that he ever ate salad, but the service left the vegetables every week. Women liked salads, didn’t they? Women...
His brain flipped over as he realized Natalie had lost her car, was stuck in his house and he’d basically left her to do laundry on her own. He hadn’t asked if she was okay or sat with her or anything. He’d walked out like some brooding gothic figure.
He swore. What was wrong with him? He wasn’t dealing with an alien species. He wasn’t some thirtysomething virgin alone with his first woman. He had to get a grip, or at least fake it better.
Natalie breezed into the kitchen. She had changed back into her dress.
“Doing okay?” he asked, wondering if she’d bothered to look around when she’d been alone in the house. It wouldn’t matter if she had—it wasn’t as if he had secrets. At least, not the kind he kept in drawers. There wasn’t even a dirty magazine for her to find.
“Much better. Not that I don’t appreciate you lending me clothes.” She wrinkled her nose. “Which I’m going to need to continue to borrow while I’m here. I was going to say I should keep a packed bag in my trunk, but that wouldn’t have helped, either.” She held up a hand. “Please don’t apologize about my car again. It’s really a lucky break.”
Something he didn’t understand, but was going to have to believe, based on how many times she’d said it. He supposed the real problem was that he’d been so successful for so long he’d forgotten what it was like to have to save up for something like a car.
He wondered if it would be okay for him to offer to replace hers, then realized that was not a topic they should get into while she was stranded in his house. He might not know how to talk to a woman anymore, but he knew better than to say something that might be considered upsetting. And “Hey, let me buy you a car” fell firmly into the scary, weird-guy category.
“I like your hair,” he said instead, thinking everyone enjoyed a compliment.
She groaned. “The curls? Really? I hate them. Hate.” She squeezed several in her hand. “They were torturous when I was growing up. What is it about boys in elementary school and a girl with curls? I was teased constantly.”
“You were different and they thought you were pretty.”
“Oh, please.” She sat at the stool by the counter. “I was not pretty when I was little.”
“Why would you say that? You’re pretty now. There’s no reason to think that’s changed.” He raised his brows. “Trust me. When a boy in elementary school teases you like that, it’s because you’ve flustered him.”
“I honestly don’t know what to say,” she admitted.
“There’s a first.”
Natalie laughed. “Are you saying I talk a lot?”
“Yes, but it’s nice background noise.”
She looked around. “Hmm, nothing safe to throw. Someone as annoying as you should keep decorative pillows around. Background noise? You didn’t actually say that.”
“It seems I did, and what I meant was when I’m working and you’re talking to Mathias or Nick, your conversation makes it easier to work.”
“Oh. Well, that’s different. I like that I make it easier for you to work. I didn’t know what you thought of me.” She looked at him quizzically. “Is this the softer side of Ronan Mitchell? The secret man at home?”
He realized he wasn’t as uncomfortable as he had been, which was a relief. He would hate to think he’d totally lost who he’d once been. To be honest, he was enjoying the teasing.
“I have depths.”
“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.
