Page 38 of Fragile Twisted Vows

“I swear, everything in this place is made of marble,” he says in astonishment, and I roll my eyes, which he catches as he brings down some plates with a raised eyebrow.

“Not your taste?” he says with a mock sneer, and I smirk.

“It’s extravagant and boring all at once,” I say as I look around, this entire house is all in black, white, grays and marble.

Sterile. Cold. Plain.

Except for his art, which is similar and also mildly horrendous.

Da Vinci has no place in a contemporary, modern home, but hey, I wasn’t allowed to go for interior design or art history when I went to school, so what do I know.

“What was that?” Henry asks and I shake my head, not realizing that I muttered that last part out loud.

“Sorry, just rambling I guess,” I say and he smiles as he puts delicious orange-looking pasta and colorful salads on some plates, which are also white.

“Go on. No art school for Lucy?” he quips as I take a seat on one of the iron barstools at the counter.

“No, my choices were either political science or medicine.” I sigh and frown.

“Surely there’s more choices than just those two careers. We’re in New York,” he says in disgust, and I shake my head with a smile.

“Wasn’t up to the school. My parents,” I say, and he gives a look of disgust, which I appreciate.

“Well they sound both extravagant and boring,” he says and I laugh as he slides me a plate, the smells circling my nostrils.

“Penne Alla Vodka and Caprese salad. Enjoy,” he says as he dries his hands on the towel over his shoulder, his bright green eyes locked on me in anticipation.

I take a bite and practically moan in bliss as he smiles with satisfaction. And I continue to devour his food while he cleans up the kitchen.

“So, what did you choose?” he asks as I look at him in confusion, my mouth stuffed full with pasta.

He rolls his eyes and I find that I like his personality.

“The degree. Medicine or-”

“Oh, right. I started with nursing school but never got to finish,” I say and he pauses, waiting for me to finish as I wipe my mouth and wave my hand.

“Long story, not important,” I say as I drink some water that he hands me.

“What would you do? If you could go back?” he asks as he leans forward and places his chin on his hand, eyeing me closely.

He feels…familiar in a way. Reminds me of a friend I once had in high school. A friend my father never allowed me to keep. They were too abstract. Too wild and rebellious.

They were free. Simply put.

“Probably Art Theory or Art History,” I say as he nods.

“What about you?” I ask, and he sighs.

“I came out of the womb cooking. The universe decided this for me,” he says, and I know exactly what he means, it’s how I feel about painting.

But the universe never got to decide for me. Or if it did, then the universe definitely hates me since it left my parents in charge.

“And would you change it? Would you rather do something else?” I ask as he picks at his salad.

“No, I love this, but I also love fashion. I’m going to stylist school part time. Thankfully, clients like Damien pay me enough to do so,” he says with a smirk, and I want to roll my eyes again, but I refrain.

“Yes, he’s very generous,” I say as I hop down from the stool and grab my plate, but he takes it from me.

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