Page 12 of The House Guest
“But let’s face it,” I admitted. “Majoring in art is not the wisest career choice.”
“Knowing that didn’t stop you, though. That says a lot about you. You’re willing to take a risk for the chance to do something you love.” He looked into my eyes. “I think on some level, you know you have true skills, which makes it easier to take that risk. You must realize you’re truly talented.”
My face felt flushed. “I assumed you thought my monkeys were ridiculous.”
“They are on the surface. But they’re realistic as hell. And original. The more I think about it, the more impressed I am.” He shrugged. “And I’m jealous that you’re doing something you love.”
“Well, thank you,” I said, filling with pride. “Even if music isn’t your career, can’t you get back into it as a hobby?”
“I’m a little too busy right now for hobbies. Talk to me in thirty years.”
“How old are you?” I asked.
“Twenty-eight.” He arched a brow. “How old are you?”
“How old do you think I am?”
“Well, given that you’re in college, I want to say…nineteen?”
My mouth dropped open. “Do I look nineteen?”
“Yes.” He smirked.
I couldn’t tell if he was serious. “I’m twenty-three, actually. Got a bit of a late start on the college front.”
“Where are you from originally?”
“Cincinnati.”
He nodded. “Are you hungry?” he asked after a moment.
“I could eat.”
“Up for a midnight snack?”
“Always.” I grinned.
Dorian stood, and I grabbed the popcorn bowl, following him out of the theater. On the way up the stairs, I couldn’t help noticing how nicely his dark jeans hugged his ass. Attractive from every angle, apparently.
Once upstairs, Dorian looked around the large, all-white kitchen. “I haven’t eaten here since I moved back. I have no idea what we have or where anything is.”
“I’m due to go grocery shopping,” I said. “So I don’t have much to offer you from my personal stash besides Diet Coke.”
We rummaged through the pantry, which contained several cans of the same exact item.
I reached for one and laughed. “Enough caviar?”
“My dad’s favorite. Imported, made from sturgeon originating in the Caspian Sea. He always said it’s the best.”
“I’ve never eaten caviar,” I said, scrunching my nose. “Not sure I’d like it.”
“Well, no one else is gonna eat this.” He took the can from me. “You wanna try it?”
“How do you eat it?”
“Usually crackers, but I don’t see that we have any.” He grabbed a bag of something in the corner. “Hot Cheetos?”
“Hot Cheetos and caviar?” I shrugged. “Why not?”
