Dream On(74)
Perry’s lips part and he stares at me for so long I have to resist the urge to fidget. Finally, he shrugs and opens the door wide. “Come in then. I have to warn you though, I’m not the best company at the moment.”
I step into the apartment and follow him down a short hallway into a clean, light-filled space consisting of a kitchen and living room. A long wooden countertop with a farmhouse sink and a four-burner stove stretches along the entire back wall of windows. It’s dotted with flowering potted plants and overlooks his backyard greenhouse and the stately maple growing just outside his cracked wooden fence. A mishmash of multicolored dishes, mugs, and cups occupy the open shelves that flank the white, magnet-filled refrigerator, while a tall butcher’s block island doubles as a table, two low-backed stools pushed neatly underneath it.
In the living room, a television is tucked into a corner between a potted palm tree and a carved fireplace, which is capped by a round antique mirror. Two armchairs, one high-backed and blue and the other short, round, and forest green, sit kitty-corner next to a worn cognac leather sofa pushed against a wall filled with artwork and framed photographs—Perry’s gallery wall. Warmth fills my belly when I spot my painting among the eclectic mix. It’s located near the center, a clear focal point illuminated by a pair of skylights overhead.
Perry’s apartment isn’t quite how I imagined it, but somehow it suits him perfectly. His family’s deep connection to this place is evident in every piece of hand-me-down furniture; every mismatched vintage dish; and in every scuffed, weathered floorboard, worn smooth in sections by the innumerable people who have trodden the same paths for decades.
The Colonel trots over to a beige dog bed in front of the fireplace and flops into its cushiony center with a huff while Perry strides over to the thick mahogany coffee table, scoops up a plate of half-eaten chicken and risotto, and deposits it in the sink. His jerky movements ignite a fresh wave of nerves, and I hover in the space between the living room and kitchen, unsure whether to sit, stand, or give him the hug he so clearly needs. I split the difference by taking a hesitant step forward.
“How did you even find out about the whole property-stealing plan anyway?” he asks with his back to me. “I can’t believe Devin told you.”
My thighs tighten painfully. “He didn’t. I was at the meeting with your dad and Councilman Truman today.”
The dish he’s washing clatters in the sink. “What?”
“I didn’t know I was meeting with Devin and your dad, or that a member of the city council would be there,” I say hastily. “My boss asked me to sit in because I recently researched eminent domain, the legal doctrine that would enable your dad’s plan to work, but he didn’t tell me who the client was that we were meeting or what exactly all my research was for.”
“So you were just as blindsided as I was,” he murmurs. “I’m so sorry, Cass. You don’t deserve to be dragged into the middle of my family’s drama.”
I stride forward until the only thing separating us is the kitchen island. “Why are you apologizing? I’m the one who’s sorry. Your own father is trying to leverage his political connections to take away your business. I can’t imagine how you must feel right now.”
Turning fully to face me, Perry leans his hips against the cabinet behind him, fingers squeezing the countertop. “Furious, of course. But not surprised. My dad has been trying to control me my whole life. But Devin…” His jaw flexes so tightly it trembles. “I thought he had my back.”
“He does,” I say.
Perry’s eyes flash.
I raise my palms. “I know it’s hard to believe, and you have every right to be angry with him. He should have told you right away what your dad was planning—he admits that. But he didn’t tell you because he thought your dad’s idea was so far-fetched it wasn’t even possible, and he didn’t want you to worry prematurely. Misguided, I know,” I add at his dubious expression. “For what it’s worth, he feels horrible. He said he should have realized your dad would go to any lengths to control your life, and he regrets not trying to stop him sooner.”
Sighing, Perry scrubs a palm over his jaw. When he looks at me, some of the tension has seeped from his posture, but there’s still a hard edge to his smile. “I thought you said you weren’t here to make excuses for him.”
“You’re right, I’m not. But I do think you should give him a chance to explain himself and apologize—in person.”
Perry’s quiet for a long, tense moment. Finally, he rolls his shoulders and pushes away from the countertop. “I’ll think about it.”
I exhale a long breath.
“But first, tell me how you think I can save Blooms & Baubles. Fair warning though: if it turns out you were serious about me selling a kidney, I’ll have to pass. I’m pretty attached to mine.” A flicker of amusement crosses his lips, and the knot in my gut loosens a fraction.
“No black-market organ sales required. Scout’s honor.”
Grabbing a beer from the fridge, he motions toward one of the low-backed stools at the kitchen island, and I sit.
“Want a beer?” he asks over his shoulder.
I shake my head. “I’m good, thanks.”
He fills a glass with ice water and sets it on the table in front of me. Twisting open his beer with a phfffz, Perry drags the other stool out from the opposite side of the island and sits so we’re facing each other. The tall wooden island is long but narrow—only two feet wide or so, which means even though we’re sitting on opposite sides we’re still close. Under the makeshift table, Perry’s knee skims mine and my nerves buzz at the contact.