Page 65 of A World Without You
“The-dawn-has-not-yet-crackedmorning,” I add, glancing outside at the dark sky. It’s so early that it’s still pitch-black outside.
Bennett groans rather dramatically, and I give him a look.
“We’re vampires in the winter in Washington, you know this. Daylight doesn’t arrive until like eight a.m., which is like brunch time,” I say, making my way through his house and taking in the décor.
Light wood floors stretch throughout the main area, and dark green kitchen cabinets with brushed gold hardware adorn the kitchen. He has three Christmas trees of varying heights and width in the corner, and a Christmas village is lit up on the mantel, complete with a train weaving its way through the gumdrops and snowcapped houses. There’s a breathtaking painting hanging over the mantel above the fireplace. It’s an abstract portrait of a female with tormented eyes that morphs into a landscape of trees and wilderness, blending deep shades of green, black, brown, and maroon into an intricate piece. I soak in the details of his décor, design, and the nutmeg and cedar aroma filling the air. “I’m impressed, Bennett. You really are a grown-up.”
My eyes continue to be drawn to the painting. It’s of a woman but ambiguous—no doubt an interpretive piece. “Where did you get that?” I ask.
“I painted it.”
“Shut up.” I gasp.
“Okay.” He shrugs.
“You’re serious?” I ask, and he nods. “Bennett, it’s phenomenal.”
“I call it Broken Woman.”
I smile. “She’s perfect.”
“Thanks,” he mutters, removing the lid from the Americano and using a remote on the kitchen island to turn on the Christmas tree lights.
My jaw drops. “I found your flaw.”
He raises his eyebrows at me over his shoulder as he opens his refrigerator.
“Colored Christmas lights.”
“What’s wrong with those?” he asks.
“Tacky,” I remark evenly, then eye the artificial pumpkin spice creamer he just plunked on the counter. I tilt my head. “And another flaw.”
He scowls at me as he pops off the red plastic lid and adds a dollop of the creamer to his coffee. “One, I have a five-year-old, and she picked the lights.”
“Aw, she did? Way less tacky then.” Tenderness blooms in my chest, and I smile. I love that kid.
“They even play music,” he adds, stirring the creamer into the brown bean soup.
“Ahh,” I muse, eyebrows raised.
“And they flash to the beat,” he finishes, replacing the plastic lid and clicking another button on the remote. Immediately the colored little bulbs begin flashing, and a grainy version of “We Wish You A Merry Christmas” blares from a plastic speaker buried behind the pine needles.
It sounds terrible. I love it.
I turn to him and smile. “Impressive.”
He smiles smugly and takes a sip of his chemical coffee concoction. “And two, this artificial pumpkin spice creamer tastes delicious, so suck it.”
I frown and mock offense at his juvenile comment. “That’s rude and that’s not how grownups should drink their coffee.”
He rolls his eyes. “I like my coffee sweet... like my personality.”
A sharp laugh escapes my lips before I quiet my voice and say, “Funny, sarcastic, slightly overbearing, with a smile that’s more of a grimace at times, but sure, we’ll go with sweet.”
His smile shifts to a sneer as he takes a sip, and I straighten my shoulders, and choose to argue, “It’s terrible for you.”
He finishes sipping with a loud and overzealousahhh. “It’s five o’clock in the morning. What do you want to tell me?” he asks, setting the paper cup on the counter and ignoring my chastising.
