An instant smile pops onto her lips. “You’re here!”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Work was a bastard.”
“No sorries,” she summons me inside with a flick of her wrist. “We haven’t sat down to dinner yet.”
I shove a wicker basket filled with a half dozen Bosc pears at her. “This is for you.”
Her gaze falls to it as I brush past her.
I’ve never been inside this apartment, but the layout mirrors Mrs. Sweeney’s place. That’s where the similarities end.
A dark brown leather sofa sits in the center of the open space. To its right is the dining room. There’s a mid-size table with a bunch of chairs gathered around it. Some match. Some don’t.
One wall is decorated with scattered pictures of people. The frames all vary in style and color, yet they somehow match perfectly with each other.
My gaze travels over those until it reaches the wall that houses a large window. Next to it are four large black frames. Each contains a stunning photograph of New York City taken at night.
Mr. Durkman must agree with me because he’s studying them.
“I make a pitcher of sangria,” Calliope says. “Do you want some?”
I’ve never been able to stomach it, but if she crafted it, I know I’ll love it. “Please.”
“You know everyone.” Her hand sweeps across the room. “Get to mingling, Saint.”
Before I let her rush off, I subtly link one of my pinkie fingers around one of hers. “Have I told you today how beautiful you are?”
Her gaze drops to the jeans and pink sweater she’s wearing. “No, but I’ll take the compliment.”
“Take it.” I tug her hand closer. “Keep it.”
That sends her off toward the kitchen with a giggle.
I make my way around the room, stopping to offer my greetings to everyone there. Cornell takes the opportunity to ask a question related to work. As I answer, I catch sight of Champ on the approach with a smile on her face.
My chest feels like it’s caving in from happiness.
If this is love, I never again want to feel what I felt the moment before I met her.
“Here you go.” She grabs my hand to place a glass tumbler in it. “I made spaghetti, my mom’s super secret meat sauce, garlic bread, and a big salad.”
Cornell rubs his stomach through the T-shirt he’s wearing. “It sounds delicious, Callie. Lee loves spaghetti.”
Her gaze darts to where the little boy is playing on the floor with a few wooden blocks. “I found a booster seat in the hall closet. Grady has it for when my niece comes over. We can set that up so Lee can sit at the table with us.”
I stare at her. How can one person radiate so much goodness?
“Callie,” Mr. Durkman calls out her name. “Tell me where these came from.”
She walks over to where he’s standing a few feet from us. “The photographs?”
He nods, tapping a finger against the corner of one of the frames. “This one in particular. I took my love to this restaurant on our first date many years ago. It shut down a few months ago, so we don’t have anything but our memories. I need a print of this for our apartment.”
I scan the photograph. It’s of a diner that anchored a corner on Broadway. The word ‘restaurant’ is glowing neon red in the image against the rain that is falling. The reflection of the building on the puddled rain on the street only adds to the allure of the image.
“I gave those pictures to Grady as a housewarming gift. I’ll get a print to you tomorrow,” Calliope says. “I know someone who can frame it for you. They’re very affordable. They frame all of my photographs.”
The question I’m primed to ask leaves Durkman’s lips before I can get it out. “Your photograph? Did you take this picture, Callie?”