There was a long, wide island down the center of the room with a stainless steel top, matching the two massive refrigerators, the dishwasher, the fancy stove with ten burners, and the sink. The cabinets were a warm honey color, and like the other main rooms, the sun was streaming in through a myriad of windows.
"Has Cora ever seen this place?" I asked, moving forward, running my hand across the cool edge of the counter.
"Unfortunately, no."
"She could do wonders in here."
"You can too."
"I can try," I corrected, shaking my head. "I'm not like Cora, though. I don't have a dozen recipes memorized."
"You will figure it out."
"Or we'll all starve," I said, snorting. "Alright. What else does this place have?" I asked.
It turned out, a lot.
The main floor also boasted a library full of books and chairs begging to be sunk into. There was a game room complete with a pool table, an air hockey table, and a card table.
"Trust me, you don't want to play cards with me," I told him when he suggested it was likely the only thing in the room he'd ever put to use.
"No? Sore loser?" he asked, lips twitching. Teasing. He was teasing me.
"I wouldn't know," I shot back, chin lifting a bit. "I never lose."
"That sounds like a challenge," he concluded.
"We can't play for money. Since I seem to be missing all my personal belongings."
"We'll play for something a lot more valuable," he said, tone deep.
"What's that?" I asked, feeling my heartbeat quicken with the intensity in his eyes.
"Information."
"What kind of information?"
"Winner's choice."
That was risky.
For so many reasons. I had many stories I had never told anyone. The idea of doing so made my stomach cramp painfully.
That being said, I had to imagine Christopher felt the same way about some of his past, about sensitive parts of his life.
And if he was willing to take that risk, why should I chicken out?
"Alright," I agreed, nodding. "After dinner."
After bringing me to the lower floor where I found an indoor pool, a hot tub, and a sauna, we went back up, finding the level with the bedrooms.
"What do you mean, pick one? Where are you staying? Where is Alexander staying? I can't just pick any one."
"Alexander is in the attic room. He claimed it when he was young. Back when he was interested in astronomy. He still has his telescope up there. You can choose any of these."
"Alright, well, this one overlooks that view out back where you can see the river. So... I am going with this one," I concluded after glancing in the second to last one in the hall. "What?" I asked, brows furrowing.
"Nothing," he told me, but it wasn't convincing in the least.
It wasn't until much later—after enjoying a meal prepared by Antony and his daughter, Maria—when I had gone to my room to change into something a little warmer, that I realized what Christopher had found so interesting about my room choice.
Because as I was standing in the bathroom in my panties and a tee, a pocket door slid open, revealing Christopher and the bedroom behind him.
Adjoining rooms.
That was just... altogether too damn tempting, now, wasn't it?
"Did you pick that room because of this?" I accused, eyes going small.
He moved a step back, waving an arm inside his room, inviting me to investigate.
And there was no denying that this had been his room for many years. He'd had a desk moved in, complete with another of those fancy leather binders of his, a giant TV which all the other bedrooms were lacking, and a closet full of suits.
"Just an interesting coincidence," he told me, watching me as I moved around, reminding me of my lack of clothing on the lower portion of my body. "But also good. We're safe here, but it is smart from a logistical standpoint to be close by."
"Alexander is in the attic," I reminded him.
"With a staircase that pulls up and locks from the inside. No one can get up there unless he wants to let them. I know this from experience."
"He's taking this all pretty well. All things considered. It can't be easy to be pulled out of school, away from friends and girls. Especially at his age."
"At least here, he can go into town if he'd like. So long as he keeps his mouth shut about who we are and why we're here."
"He's smart enough for that."
"You'd think that. But then there might be a pretty girl. And fifteen-year-old boys are notoriously stupid around pretty fifteen-year-old girls."
"He already has a girl," I reminded him.
"Fifteen-year-old boys can also be fickle."
"Thirty-year-old men can be fickle, so I guess we can't fault him too much."
"He'll learn through his mistakes. Much like the rest of us."
"Do you plan for him to work for you when he's older?" I blurted out, not sure why I was asking, how I could possibly consider it any of my business.
"That would be up to him. After high school. After college. Then he can decide. You're disappointed," he concluded as I moved past him, back into the bathroom, then through to my bedroom with its queen-sized bed with a cream comforter and about a dozen pillows.
"I didn't say that," I told him, dropping down on the bed.
"You didn't need to. You're easy to read."
"I've literally never heard someone say that about me before," I told him, feeling a bit taken aback at the idea. The whole reason I was so good at my job was because I had a great poker face. You would never know if I was bullshitting you during a negotiation, or if I was being genuine. I'd have been killed a long time ago if I hadn't carefully honed that particular skill.
He shrugged that off. "Your eyes give you away. You think I should want better for my brother than I have," he concluded.
"That is usually the goal for parental figures toward the young men and women they are raising."
"I want for him the same things I wanted for myself when I was his age. A stable profession. An income that will prevent him from worrying. The freedom to enjoy downtime, to take holidays. Maybe he will find that in starting his own business. Maybe he will find purpose in being a doctor, saving lives. Maybe he will write books or open a bar. Or maybe he will choose to find those things the same way I have."
"Working for you would be much more dangerous than writing books or running a bar."
"Being alive is dangerous," he shot back.
"Yes, but your life more so."
"And yours isn't?" he asked, brow raising.
"We're not talking about me."
"When you have a daughter, will you tell her not to do what you did for a living?"
When.
Not if.
It was an interesting distinction that my body physically responded to, my stomach flip-flopping, my breath catching.
I hadn't given much thought to children. There had never been any reason to. My life was too crazy for kids. Not to mention my complete and utter lack of a man I would ever want to mix my DNA with to make a human being.