"What do you have?" I ask, coming back to the counter and pulling out a stool.
"Looks like Dominic cooked steak and mashed potatoes." He says as he pulls out a plate wrapped in clear plastic. He sets it down, removes the wrap, and places it in the microwave. Then opens a drawer for silverware but only takes out one set.
"Dominic is your chef?"
"Yeah, and his Kobe steak is to die for."
The microwave dings, and he pulls it out, grabs the silverware, and comes to sit next to me. My mouth waters, but I don't say anything.
He cuts the meat with a regular butter knife, stabs it, then offers it to me. "Best damn steak you'll ever eat."
I open my mouth, and he inserts it. The tenderness is startling. It melts in my mouth. "Mmhmm!"
He stabs another piece and eats it himself. Together we consume the meal, and when the plate is empty, he rinses it off in the sink. "Do you eat breakfast?"
"Not lately," I admit. "Budget."
"No longer an issue." He says as he goes back to the refrigerator and uncaps a pen hanging from a string attached to a notepad. "I eat eggs every morning. If you want something else, I'll let Dominic know."
"I'll eat a piece of toast."
He chuckles, "He'll be insulted."
"Ok, make it French toast."
He writes, "French toast for a new resident."
Then he says, "Finish your drink, we'll call it a night after a quick tour."
I do as instructed, and he takes both glasses, rinses them, then loads the dishwasher. "Ready?" He holds his hand out.
I slip mine in it, and he pulls me into his arms. "I want to kiss you right now, but I won't."
I smirk, "Why not?"
"Because if you kiss me back," he slides my hand to his crotch. "We won't make it out of the kitchen."
I laugh as I stroke his length. "Better not then. I want to see everything before I lose my shit again."
He chuckles. "Come on. We'll make it quick."
When we leave the kitchen and return to the living room, he walks to the end of the room along the wall with the bar and slides another invisible door into the wall. Lights illuminate a long hallway with a door at the end and three doors on either side. He stops at the first door and opens it, then steps back. "Guest room, number one."
I stick my head in. It's rather small compared to the kitchen. There's a king-sized bed, a small sofa, two overstuffed chairs, and two doors that I assume open into a closet and a bathroom. I spot my backpack at the feet of one the chairs. This is my room.
He pulls me out, closes the door, then opens the door on the opposite side. It's also a guest room, but this one has candid pictures of him as a young boy, as a teen, in his military uniform, and with Cilla and his father. I try to enter, but he says, "Mom's room is off-limits unless she invites you in."
"Oh. Okay." I apologize. "I just wanted to see the pictures."
He says, "Don't worry. She'll give you the whole history of each one when she's in town."
As we walk to the next door, I ask. "Where does she live?"
"The Hamptons."
He opens the next door, and it's an office with a beautiful mahogany desk and matching leather chair, surrounded with pieces of expensive artwork that could live in a museum. A keyboard is on top with a desk monitor, and there's also a smart tv on the opposite wall.
The next door down opens into a library with walls of books, a settee, two matching wing chairs, and two recliners. "If you lose me, I'll be in here." I twinkle at him. "Bookworm." I point at my chest.
