He looks up at me, tongue lolling out.
"Yes, it's time for my shower too. Come on, buddy."
I spend too long in the giant en-suite bathroom, but with each minute beneath the warm water it feels like another worry melts away. My voice echoes against the tiles as I sing, massaging shampoo into my scalp.
My hair is still wet when I walk barefoot to the kitchen. He'd said there was a fully stocked fridge, hadn't he? I've just sized up its contents when Ace's tail starts wagging against the floor.
Anthony's changed into a linen button-down, but the black slacks are still in place. The scowl isn't. He puts his hands in his pockets and looks at the food I've lined up on the kitchen counter.
"Filming a cooking show?" he asks.
I give him a wide smile. "I'm trying to think of what we want for dinner. I also realized I don't know what you like to eat. I know you're not a vegetarian, but that's pretty much it." I lift a packet of fresh fettuccini. "Do you like pasta? I make a great pasta carbonara."
Anthony's gaze drifts from mine to the packet in my hand. He's quiet, and I immediately realize my mistake. I reach out and put a hand on his forearm. "Oh, I'm sorry. Do you not want to eat dinner together? Perhaps you meant for us to live more like roommates, you know. You do you, and I'll do me."
"Summer," he interrupts, "I'd love to have dinner with you."
Something about the way he says it sends shivers down my spine. "Okay," I breathe.
"Okay," he says.
I let my hand drop from his arm. Look through the drawers in search of a knife. I find it and clear my throat, fighting against the pounding of my heart.
"Do you have a cutting board?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"I'm not here often, and when I am I rarely cook." But he helps me look, strong hands opening cabinet doors and exploring. To my surprise, there are no wineglasses. Nothing but water glasses. Everything stacked neatly.
"Wow," I say. "Your interior designer really is a neat freak! She would hate to see my cabinets."
"Yes, she's something like that."
There are differently shaped knobs on each cabinet, too, which seems at odd with the streamlined decor.
He helps me find what I need and then stands there, by the kitchen counter, hands in his pockets. Like he's torn between staying or retreating to the office, lost, unsure of what to do and to say.
So I grab two of the lagers we'd both liked from the beer tasting and nod to the kitchen chair. "Keep me company?"
"Okay." He cracks open both of our beers and has a seat. Takes a long swig of his. "You know, you were singing while you took your shower earlier."
I nearly drop the spatula. "I was?"
"Oh." Blushing, I turn back to the stove. "I'm sorry, I didn't know you could hear me."
"Don't apologize," he says. "Your voice is lovely."
The bacon and cream in front of me turns hazy as I absorb the compliment, as it reaches inside and warms something I didn't know was cold. "Thank you."
"Tell me about the singing."
With my back to him, it's easier. "I always sang as a child. My mother likes to say I sang before I spoke."
"Recording a demo is on your bucket list."
"Yes. I used to sing a lot. Even had a YouTube channel, actually." I shake my head. "But that's over now."
"You posted your singing online?"
"Yes. Just for fun, you know. Not because I thought of myself as having a voice worthy to share or anything."
"It is, though," he says. "Are the videos still up?"
I shake my head. "I took them down a few years ago."
"How come?"
Shrugging, I turn up the heat for the pasta water to boil. Edging closer to a truth I don't know if I want to reveal. "Do you remember the ex-boyfriend I mentioned? The one I broke up with a year ago?"
"Yes. You said the break-up was a good thing."
"Well, he was a musician. And a sociopath, probably." I add a laugh.
But it's not really funny.
"Well, he had a lot of opinions, and he was great at expressing them in very convincing ways." I'm dancing around the truth here, but admitting to being manipulated in front of this man… He's so sure and stable and radiates the kind of fuck-off energy that tells people to not even try.
He would have seen Robin for what he was a mile away.
I add the fettuccini to the now-boiling water. "Anyway, he didn't like me putting singing videos online. Didn't like my vocal coach, either. It went from telling me I should practice more, to how it would be better if I focused my energy elsewhere. He implied people were just indulging me when they said nice things. That he was the only one doing me a favor by telling the truth."
Anthony's voice is glacial. "He said those things."
"Yes. I don't like to call people names, but he was sort of an asshole."
"He sounds like a lot more than just an asshole."
I force nonchalance into my tone and turn to where he's sitting, straight on the kitchen chair, his dark gaze on me. It's serious.
"It's on me for listening to him, in the end," I admit. "For not realizing what he was doing until it had already happened. He was very convincing."
"He was wrong," Anthony says, fury beneath his words. "Both about your singing and about whatever else he might have told you. You know that, right?"
"I know. Even if it's sometimes hard to remember."
His frown deepens. "You will, in time, and so much the better for the rest of us. You sing beautifully."