Hard Rules

Sighing, I just take it with me in hunt of the wine, setting it next to the cognac. It starts ringing again and my gaze catches on the name “Seth” by accident. Regretting ever going after his phone, I quickly squat and open the cabinet, counting the rings until they go silent. Then and only then do I stare at a dozen bottles of wine, shifting one here and there to stare at labels, concerned I’ll pick the most expensive bottle on the shelf. I have a fleeting memory of how romantic I’d thought my parents trying a new bottle of wine every Friday night, had been. She never had a glass again after he died.

“Having trouble?”

I jump at the sound of Shane’s voice to look up and find him towering over me. “You surprised me,” I say, popping to my feet to discover he’s changed into a snug white T-shirt and a pair of navy sweats and still manages to look GQ.

“You must have been really concentrating on the wine.”

“I was thinking of—” His phone begins to ring where it sits on top of the minibar, and his brows furrow in confusion.

“I grabbed it for you,” I explain quickly. “It keeps ringing and I was going to bring it to you but I felt weird about it. Then I felt weird about calling out to you or ever touching your phone.” It stops ringing again. “Then I felt even weirder when I saw the caller ID like I was snooping. I should have just left it where it was. I’m sorry.”

He studies me, his expression unreadable, several beats passing in which I wonder what he’s thinking, before he says, “You’re fine. Did you pick a bottle?”

“I don’t know much about wine and I was worried I’d pick an outrageously expensive bottle.” I go back to what seems important. “Shouldn’t you deal with those phone calls? It’s late. What if something’s wrong?”

“For the first time in a year, I’m not taking calls.”

“Don’t you want to know who it is?”

“I know who it is. You want a sweet wine, I assume?”

“I want a cheap wine.”

“I don’t have any cheap wine.”

“Then I don’t want any.”

He squats down, grabs a bottle, and stands again. “This one it is.” His phone starts to ring and he ignores it, motioning toward the kitchen. “Let’s sit at the bar,” he says, already moving that direction.

“I don’t drink much,” I call after him, his shoulders especially impressive under the stretch of the cotton tee, a hint of the dreaded tattoo peeking from one shoulder. “I’ll waste the bottle.”

He rounds the bar and appears on the other side in the kitchen, reaching above him to a cabinet. I grab his phone, and join him, claiming a high-backed leather barstool at the same moment he sets two crystal glasses on the counter. I, in turn, set his phone in between them.

He ignores it and fills both glasses. “Try it and make sure you like it.”

I fight the urge to push him to take the call. He knows who it is. He knows it’s not an emergency. Unless he doesn’t. “It’s Seth,” I say.

He picks up the phone and hits the button on the side that I can only assume is the volume, then rests his hands on the other side of the bar. “Try the wine, sweetheart.”

“I was just worried—”

“I know.”

Okay. He knows who it is so all is well, only his energy says differently but I don’t get the chance to press him. The doorbell rings. “That will be the food,” he says. “And once again, I’ll be right back.” He disappears on the other side of the bar and I stare at the phone. Oh God. Is Seth his father? Some people call their parents by their names. It’s odd, but so is his father having sex in the kitchen with his friend’s mother.

Almost too quickly it seems Shane reappears but this time on my side of the bar. “Your phone’s ringing,” he says, surprising me by offering me my purse and setting the bag of food on his stool.

My gut knots and I accept it, forcing myself not to react. “Well since no one offering me a job would be calling now,” I say, hanging it on the back of my stool, “I’m not taking calls either.” I inhale the rich scent of spices. “And I swear that ravioli smells better this time than last.”

“You can take the call, Emily. It’s really okay.”

“I don’t want to take the call.” And I don’t want to invite questions. I scoot off my seat. “I’ll get silverware if you tell me where it is.” I dart around him before he can stop me.

“By the refrigerator,” he calls out. “And we don’t need plates.”

I pull open the drawer, and stare at the expensive silverware, glad for the short retreat that’s giving me time to shove aside the worry threatening to take control of me. It can’t have control. I can’t survive that way. I grab two forks and shut the drawer again, turning to face Shane. “Do you want water?”

“I’ll take a bottle.”

Turning to the fridge, I open it and note he has hardly any food. Okay no food. Just protein shakes and water. “Do you eat at home ever?” I call out, grabbing him a bottle, and heading back around the bar to find our take-out containers still sealed, and in front of our places, the bag set aside.

“I work a lot and order room service.”

I claim my seat and set the water next to him. “I guess that explains why you chose to live in a hotel.” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">