“We’re just across the Heath from each other,” I said, nodding toward the huge expanse of green.
“I suppose,” she said as I gestured to go in. “I’m still living with my parents.”
“The Post doesn’t pay so well?” I asked, following her, closing the door behind us and dropping my car keys into a bowl on the hall table.
“I’m only at the paper on a temporary contract. I’m a freelancer. I’m trying to save for a deposit on a flat so I can move out, but without a permanent job it’s almost impossible.”
“Oh yes, I remember you saying something about your house deposit fund at the wedding.”
“I should never have bought that dress. It cost me a fortune and it’s unrepairable.” She glanced back at me and I indicated that she needed to follow the hallway all the way to its end.
I switched on the light in the kitchen living space that spanned the back of the house and headed to the wine fridge. “Make yourself comfortable,” I said.
“So, no butler or live-in housekeeper? And you drove yourself?”
“I’ll open the wine myself and get my chef to prepare us some dinner. And when I say my chef, I mean Uber Eats.”
“No chef, either? How shocking.” She placed her palm on her chest in mock distress. “Do you have any help?” she asked. “I thought you were supposed to be rich.”
“I have a housekeeper who sometimes cooks. I also have a mother who never lets me leave family dinners without a month’s worth of food to take home.”
“Oh yes. The lasagna.” She laughed as she took a seat on one of the bar stools at my kitchen island. It was a warm sound that travelled through her entire body. The way she laughed was infectious. It was as if it didn’t happen all the time and she made the most of it. “My mother doesn’t cook unless you count unwrapping cheese and putting it on a board with some crackers.”
I grinned and slipped my jacket off. “Wine?” I asked, pulling out a couple glasses. It probably wasn’t the best choice to add alcohol into the mix tonight, but she wanted to see me at home and this was me at home.
She nodded. “I thought you were tequila only.”
“I confess, I’m a bit of a snob when it comes to wine. I’d rather drink nothing than something bad. What do you like?” The question seemed to crystallize the tension between us. It suddenly seemed ludicrous that I didn’t know the wine preferences of the woman in front of me but I did know the expression on her face when she came.
“Surprise me,” she said.
If she hadn’t been trying to get to know me for an article, tonight would have felt a lot like a date. But she was and so it . . . shouldn’t feel like that.
I pulled out a 2010 Château Margaux and set about pouring us each a glass. “What food shall I order?”
“I’m not picky. Pick whatever comes the fastest—I’m hungry.”
While I pulled up a delivery app that offered takeaway from the best restaurants in London, Madison slipped off her chair and headed over to my wine fridge. It was only a small proportion of the collection that was housed in the cellar. As I ordered, she wandered over to the glass doors the other side of the sofas that led onto the garden. It was twilight and she wouldn’t be able to see much. She cupped her hands around her face to block out the lights. Her long, rioja-colored hair was swept up into a high ponytail that showed off the back of her neck. She seemed relaxed and happy enough to show herself around.
“You like the view?” I asked. I knew I did.
“I can’t decide,” she said, turning back to face me but her eyes searched the room.
“What needs to be decided on?”
“Expensive wine, German handmade kitchen, moody lighting, clean modern aesthetic—clearly you had someone come in and dress this place.” She swept her hand up. “I mean it looks like something out of a magazine. It’s all typical rich guy stuff.”
Where was she going with this?
“And then . . .” Something caught her eye behind me, and I turned to find she’d been drawn to the picture of me and my brothers at Beau’s graduation. “Then there’s stuff like this—you wanting a garden and your mum cooking you dinner.”
“You’re saying I’m hiding something?”
She looked at me and shook her head. “No, I guess I’m just leafing through your layers.” She grabbed the picture frame. “Is this you and your long-lashed siblings?”
I chuckled. “It’s me and my brothers, yes.”
“Five is a lot.” She smiled as she took in the image. “Are you standing in order of age?”
Our parents used to arrange us like that when we were little and the habit had stuck. “Yeah. I guess.”