“Basically a scribble.”
I stared some more.
“Uncatalogued,” he added.
The staring continued.
“Babe.” He snapped his fingers in front of my face. “You still with me?”
“Nope.” I shook my head to clear my bewilderment. “Still trying to process the fact that you’d even consider leaving the loft when you have a freaking Picasso hanging on the wall of your bathroom when it really belongs in, like, I don’t know. A museum. A hermetically sealed crypt. A vault at Gringotts.”
“Not sure that last one is an actual option, but I like that you’re concerned about the welfare of my art collection.”
“Don’t you joke with me, Graham Graves,” I hissed. “I am not in a joking mood. I am in a freaking-the-heck-out mood.”
“Gwen.”
“What?!” I snapped.
“The loft might have all that shit, but it doesn’t have you in it. And you count a hell of a lot more than all the rest.” He heaved a martyred sigh, as though I was the one being ridiculous here. “The Picasso can hang on one of your walls — maybe in your library if there’s room when I’m done building your shelves. The turntable can sit in your living room. And if you want, we’ll put a pedestal tub in your downstairs bathroom when we renovate.”
“When…” My voice was breathy with shock. “When…we… renovate?”
He simply nodded, then turned to pull out the baked potatoes with a pair of tongs and rotate the fish so it baked evenly.
“Graham,” I said, panic infusing every syllable. “Correct me if I’m wrong… and Imustbe wrong, because the alternative is truly too unhinged to contemplate… but it sounds to me like… you think you’re moving into my house.”
He plunked the potatoes down on the counter, stabbed them with a fork to ensure they were done, then nabbed his wine and took another long sip. “Glad you’re on board, babe.”
“On board?” I screeched. “I’m not on board. I’m so faroffboard I’m like Jack in the movieTitanic.”
He grinned.
It was an annoyingly good grin.
“I… this… you must be joking.” I planted my hands on my hips to give them something to do besides tear my hair out by the roots. “Tell me you’re joking?”
“Not joking.”
I was afraid of that.
The urge to bolt had never been stronger but, since I’d promised him I’d try not to do exactly that, I pushed it aside with brute force.
“You still freaking out?” he asked conversationally. Like we were discussing the weather.
“Yes,” I hissed, teeth clenched. “I’m still freaking out. I plan on freaking out for the rest of time.”
“Figured as much.” He sipped his wine again, looking completely calm. “Let me know when you’re done.”
“Did you not hear what I said?The rest of time.That’s when I’ll be done.”
“Uh huh.”
“You can’t move in,” I informed him, feeling uppity in the face of his serenity. “We’ve been dating, like, five minutes.”
“So?”
“So, that’s not long enough to move in. That’s not even long enough to call each other boyfriend and girlfriend. We haven’t even had a proper date!”