Spotting a basin with a hand towel laid out next to it, I wash my hands and splash water on my face. The only door in the room leads to a toilet.
When I can’t put it off any longer, I walk down the dimly lit hallway past an open-plan kitchen on the right and a study on the left to a big space at the back. Sofas are arranged around a fireplace. A television screen is mounted on the wall. Leon stands behind a bar, pouring champagne into two flutes.
He lifts his gaze when I approach. “Did you find everything you needed?”
I make my way to the open sliding door and peer outside. The bar exits into a courtyard with a pool and a wooden deck. Pool lights give the water a turquoise color in the night, and green spots in the corners throw a soft light over the exterior space. A daybed and sofas are arranged next to the pool. Lemon trees grow along the inside of the high wall that fences the courtyard, and a jasmine creeper covers the bricks. The sweet perfume of the flowers infiltrates the air, drifting through the open doors.
“Do you like the house?” he asks, carrying the flutes to me.
I shrug, taking the glass he offers. “Inspired by your African travels?”
“Yes.”
“Mm.” I brace a shoulder on the doorframe. “Impressive.”
A whiff of cologne reaches me when he walks past me to go outside. “Have a seat. Or you’re welcome to explore the house if you like.”
He goes to a gas barbecue in the corner and turns it on. A metal table with a mosaic top and two chairs stand under one of the bigger lemon trees. A few dishes are set out on the table. He must’ve done it while I was freshening up.
“I hope you like kebabs,” he says, taking off his jacket and hanging it over the back of a chair.
“Does it matter what I like?”
He rolls up his sleeves and washes his hands in a basin next to the grill. “It does, yes.”
“But not when it comes to a choice of husband.”
“We’re perfect for each other.” He flashes me a smile as he takes one of the dishes. “Admit it.”
The meat sizzles when he puts it on the grill. A fragrance of seafood and citrus fills the air.
“There’s a tablet on the table if you’d like to listen to music,” he says, neatly aligning a row of kebabs on the grill.
While he empties the dishes until the grill is packed with beef, prawn, and chicken kebabs, I scroll through the playlist and select the least romantic song I can find. Heavy metal comes on through the speakers of a central sound system. I turn up the volume. There. That should make conversation impossible.
He finishes his work patiently before washing his hands again. When he’s dried them on a paper towel, he takes the tablet and turns down the volume.
“Neighbors,” he says with a wink.
Taking a paper napkin from a stack on the table, he twists it around the bottom end of the stick and hands me a mini chicken kebab. “Here. Careful. It’s hot.”
Our fingers brush when I take it. Pretending not to notice, I pull a piece of chicken off with my teeth. The lemon-butter marinade is delicious, and the tender meat melts in my mouth. He feeds me all the chicken ones, himself only eating the prawn and beef kebabs.
“Don’t you like chicken?” I ask, wiping the sauce from my mouth.
“It’s the only meat I don’t eat.”
“That’s good to know,” I say, my tone sarcastic.
He deals his comeback with a wicked smile. “The knowledge will come in useful when you cook for me.”
“I’ll make sure to stock the fridge with chicken nuggets.”
He retorts with, “Who said life with you won’t be exciting?”
I tilt my head toward the grill. “Your meat is burning.”
He carries on feeding me as the meat cooks, alternating between chicken, beef, and prawns until my glass is empty and there’s only a beef kebab left.
“Shall we toss a coin for the last one?” he asks.
“I finished off the chicken. It’s all yours.”
“If you insist,” he says, devouring the kebab in one bite.
“Are you always a carnivore, or do you sometimes eat vegetables?”
He chuckles. “I’m a meat guy. To be fair, there were apricots and cherry tomatoes in the kebabs. And don’t forget the onions.”
“Five cherry tomatoes don’t count. You didn’t just run out and buy the food today, did you?”
“I always have food in the fridge.”
Yet he doesn’t eat chicken. That fact alone gives me my answer.
“What about the toiletries in the powder room?” I ask. “Did you climb through my window and go through my stuff while I was working?”
He smiles. “Nothing as romantic as that. Your mother told me.”
“My mother?” I ask with a sense of betrayal.