by C. M. Albert
He watched as Rosalie explored the loft, standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the heart of the city. Her arms were wrapped around her body, as if she were cold. Zade poured two glasses of sauvignon blanc and made his way toward her. He set the wine on the table next to the window and stood behind Rosalie, taking in the same view below. He wondered how she saw it.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
“Yeah, it really is. Especially at night. Christmas is my favorite time of year here, with the twinkling lights and big red bows on all the streetlights. It’s really magical.”
Rosalie took a deep breath, but said nothing.
“Hey,” Zade said, wrapping his arms around Rosalie’s waist from behind, “what’s going through that mind of yours?”
She let her head fall back against his chest, and the simple gesture made Zade smile. They felt like a real couple in that moment.
“That I don’t belong here,” she admitted. She turned, putting her hands against his chest to give herself some distance. “This is gorgeous, Zade. But this,” she said, waving her hand around his loft, “this is not my world. Your chandelier alone must cost more than my car.”
“Don’t be silly,” he said.
“Okay then, how much was it, Mr. ‘don’t be silly’?” she demanded, looking defiant and cuter than hell.
“God you’re sexy when you’re all fired up,” he said, chuckling. “I don’t actually know,” Zade admitted. “My designer picked it out for me, and he showed me about six. I just approved the design. I didn’t look at the cost of every individual piece.”
“That just proves my point. You don’t even care how much it cost. My car? It was about fifteen hundred—used. I’ve had it for six years, though, so I’m getting my money’s worth. That chandelier,” she said, pointing to his dining area, “had to run at least four thousand. Check with your designer. I guarantee I’m right.”
“What’s your point, Rosalie? Are you holding my wealth against me?” he asked, genuinely curious. “Because it’s not a big deal to me. At all.”
“That’s because you’ve never had to worry about where the money came from,” she said, walking away from him and heading toward the kitchen.
Zade followed her, bringing their wine with them. He had a feeling they’d need it tonight. He handed Rosalie her glass, then busied himself by getting the fixings out for dinner. “Rosalie, there’s a lot we don’t know about each other yet, which is why I wanted this night so badly. So we could get to know each other better. But I promise you, I don’t look down on someone whose wealth isn’t the same as my own. And I’d hope you wouldn’t hold it against me, either. Yes, I’m a doctor. But with or without money, I’m still just Zade. And the man is who I want you to get to know,” he assured her.
He set the potatoes on a foil-lined baking sheet, brushing them with butter and grinding Himalayan sea salt on top. He placed the tray in the oven, then turned to Rosalie. “We have about forty minutes till I have to put the steaks on. Want to go sit in the living room?”
“Sure,” she said, though the light that usually made her eyes come to life was absent, and it didn’t escape Zade’s attention.
They sat on the large, leather sofa, Rosalie tucking her legs under her and getting comfortable. That, he loved to see. He wanted this to feel like home to her, not a museum she didn’t belong in. He lifted a strand of her hair, searching Rosalie’s face and trying to figure out how to bring the smile back.
“Thank you for coming over,” he said, taking a sip of his wine before setting it onto the coffee table. “I have to be honest with you. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since Dez and Mitch’s party. There’s something about you, Rosalie. Even when I had the shittiest night imaginable yesterday—one of my worst since being in Arden’s Glen—I thought of you this morning. And I was glad that at least one part of my day would be something worth smiling about.”
Rosalie searched his face, probably seeing the dark circles of exhaustion for the first time. Man, he could get lost in her eyes. They were rich pools of dark chocolate and every bit as gorgeous and intoxicating as she was. He had a feeling she had no idea just how attractive she really was. He could kill whoever did this to her—made her feel not good enough.
“What happened yesterday?” she asked. “Are you allowed to talk about it?”
Zade ran his hand over his jaw, feeling the scruff that he didn’t bother to shave earlier. “We lost three people last night,” he said, gruffly. “It will be in the papers tomorrow. I can’t give specifics about my individual patients, but most of it is public record because it involved the police. Are you sure you want to talk about this? It’s pretty heavy for a first date.”
Rosalie smiled, though it was one of compassion. She took a sip of her drink, rubbing the stem as she watched Zade. He loved the way her lips were wet with wine, and he wanted nothing more than to kiss them clean. He lifted his thumb, wiping a droplet from her bottom lip. She stilled, her breath catching as surprise filled her eyes.
Their chemistry was palpable; there was no denying the electricity that filled the space between them. He watched the rise and fall of her chest, the way her tongue licked the spot where his finger had just been.
“I’ve been worried all night about LuLu and her daughter, Annalise. She got a call from the hospital after you left, and she and Maura ran out of there so fast. I—she’s a friend of mine. LuLu, I mean. I’ve been worried about her. She’s not answering any of my texts,” she said, biting the corner of her mouth in worry.
“Since you’re not a relative, I can’t give you specifics about Annalise’s medical condition. But you already know she’s in the ICU if she had to see me. She’s the only passenger who survived.”
“Her boyfriend died,” Rosalie said, sounding certain. “Didn’t he? I can feel his energy. It hasn’t crossed over yet.”
Zade watched as Rosalie closed her eyes, nodding. She shivered, then opened them again. “Thank God Annalise is all right. It would destroy LuLu if anything happened to her. Annalise is her only child.”
“Is there a Mr. Voight in the picture?” Zade asked, curious because no one other than Maura had joined LuLu while they were waiting for news about her daughter.
“Not as far as I know. I actually went to school with Annalise, though we were never really friends,” she said, lowering her eyes. “As long as I can remember, there was no father in the picture.”
Zade nodded. “So, tell me how you do that.”
“Do what?” Rosalie asked.
“Well, I’ve heard your radio show. Before I even knew you personally, I listened to your podcast replays while I ran or rode my bike. They were quite fascinating. You have a real ability to connect with your guests. I just—how do you see their relatives? Do you see them? Or do you hear them? It’s completely fascinating to me. I only deal with the physical side of life—things I can see, hear, touch. Reality.”
“So, do you think just because you can’t see something, it doesn’t exist?” Rosalie asked, smirking as she took another sip of wine. It was as if she had secrets no one else had access to.
“No, actually. I don’t. I’ve had patients in Dallas profess to have near-death experiences, where they’ve described all kinds of realities we could never understand. Saw deceased family members. What they believed was God.”
“But you don’t believe them?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I believe that they believe that what they saw was real. And there’s no way to disprove their claims. It’s happened too many times to dismiss as coincidence—and not just in my operating room.”
Rosalie nodded. “I don’t talk about this often. People don’t usually ask, to be honest. They just know that I’m the freak who can see dead people, and I’m either an oddity they’re curious about or they completely ignore me. Until they need me.”
“That’s awful,” Zade said, rubbing her shoulder. “How old were you when you knew?”
Rosa
lie took a bigger sip of wine, and Zade almost laughed. “That bad?”
She nodded. “Are you sure you want to hear this? It may change the way you look at me.”
Zade moved closer to Rosalie, cupping the side of her face and meeting her eyes. “Hey,” he said quietly, “when I look at you, I see one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever laid eyes on. I see happiness and life. A lightness that not everyone else has. My job is stressful, Rosalie. But when I look at you, it’s the last thing on my mind. Wanting to be near you, getting to know you—all of you—that’s all I care about. Give me the benefit of the doubt, okay? I’m not like everyone else. And I would never, ever, think you’re a freak because you can see and understand something others can’t. Sounds like a superpower to me,” he said, grinning.
The buzzer sounded from the kitchen, much to Zade’s disappointment. Regret filled his eyes as he offered his hand, helping Rosalie to her feet. “Can we continue this in the kitchen?”
“Sure,” Rosalie said, this time with a little more excitement. She seemed to be relaxing, and nothing made him happier.
She sat on a barstool at the large kitchen island. “Can I help?” she asked, setting her wine down onto the concrete countertop. The kitchen was modern, and he saw her taking in all the details. He hoped it didn’t cause her to close off again.
“I can find my way around the kitchen, but I’m no Gordon Ramsay.” He started the grill in the middle of his commercial-grade stove, then turned to work on the island so he didn’t have his back to Rosalie. “Are you any good at cooking?”
She laughed. “If by cooking you mean mac-n-cheese, then sure. Brecken definitely got all the culinary skills in the family. Our dad loved to cook, grill out, that kind of thing—but he mostly shared his trade secrets and recipes with my brother. Dad owned a restaurant here in town before he and my mom passed away. Brecken wasn’t ready to take it over when they died. He was only twenty-two then, just finishing college. So he did odd jobs, played gigs in Asheville from time to time, anything to save money for his own restaurant. Which is why LettuceWrap is so important to him.”
Zade brushed the steaks with oil while they chatted, seasoning them with salt and pepper before sliding them onto the grill.
“So, what’s your favorite thing to do when you’re not working?” Zade asked, grinning at Rosalie.
“Well, work doesn’t really feel like work, first of all. Well, except for my shifts at LettuceWrap. I usually only do those when we’re down a server. Which, unfortunately, seems like a lot lately. But mostly I do my radio show from the café, and that’s when I have the most fun there. Let’s see,” Rosalie said, thinking out loud. “I like to paint, but I usually only do that when I can’t sleep. When I was a little girl and couldn’t really talk to my parents about the things I was seeing and hearing, I used to get my feelings down on canvas. All that did was scare them more, even when I tried to hide the images in an abstract way. But Brecken wasn’t fooled. He knew what they were.”
“I didn’t realize you painted. I can’t paint to save my life,” Zade said, trying to keep the conversation light, even though he could hear the pain in Rosalie’s tone.
“Yeah. Before I had my own clients, or the radio show, I thought about opening a small painting studio where people could come and take classes. I could help guide them to paint their own pictures based on a design I created. Something easy enough that they could accomplish in one night. When I was in Asheville last year, I found a couple of those types of studios and I just fell in love. We don’t have anything like that in Arden’s Glen yet, and I feel like the community would really welcome it.”
Rosalie looked rather dreamy, and Zade had never seen her so relaxed and content. It sounded as if she’d thought a lot more about it than she was letting on. “So, why don’t you? You could open a studio here and do your radio show there between classes.”
She let out a deep sigh and folded her hands on the countertop. “Are you sure I can’t help?” she asked, laughing, clearly trying to change the subject.
“Sure. Grab the lettuce from the fridge if you will. The steaks are almost ready. Just toss it in this bowl,” he said, pulling one from a cabinet, “with the Caesar dressing, parm, and croutons on the counter by the fridge.”
“Ooh, I love these homemade croutons from Del Vecchio’s! I could literally just eat a bag of these for lunch,” Rosalie said, popping one into her mouth. She closed her eyes. “Mmm . . .”
Zade wanted nothing more in that moment than to make her moan like that for him. He swallowed hard, shifting because things were starting to get uncomfortable below—and now was not the time for that. “I’ll be sure to have these stocked in my house from now on if this is your reaction,” he teased. “Do you know the Del Vecchio family?”
“I do. They’ve lived here my whole life, and the restaurant has been in the family for over thirty years—though the location is new after their original restaurant burned down a couple years ago. I went to school with the boys, though we weren’t really friends,” she added.
That was the second time that evening that she said something like that, and it had him wondering why not. “How many boys do they have? I only know Marcello. He’s the son who works there with his dad, right?”
Rosalie nodded, opening drawers until she found a fork and spoon to toss the salad with. Zade grinned, happy to see her making herself at home. “They have four boys. Sal and Maria own the restaurant, though it’s Sal you always see up front greeting customers. Maria likes to cook and isn’t as social.”
Zade put the steaks on the warmer while he pulled the potatoes from the oven. He made up two plates while she rattled off the names of their sons. “There’s Marcello, whom you know. Then there’s Giovanni, Daniel, and Rocco,” she said. “Marcello’s the oldest and was in Brecken’s grade. He went off to college and came home, too. I think it was always a given that he’d eventually take over the family business. They also have a vineyard on the outskirts of Arden’s Glen. I’m pretty sure Giovanni runs that now. They make the wine you see around town under the Arden’s Glen label. For such a small winery, it’s better than almost any I’ve had elsewhere,” she said, finding her glass and taking a sip. “This is their sauvignon blanc, right?”
Zade nodded, impressed.
“I don’t drink a lot, if that’s what you’re thinking. We serve it at the café in the later afternoon with appetizers before we close. I need to know how they all taste in case a customer asks.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Zade said, teasing.
“What?” Rosalie asked innocently, finishing her glass and winking at Zade. “Mind if I get a refill for dinner?”
Zade chuckled. “Not at all. Top me off, too, please. We’re gonna go sit on my balcony that’s off the master bedroom. It’s less formal, and it’s a gorgeous night.”
Rosalie shrugged, as if it was fine with her either way.
“Should we take the elevator or the stairs?” Zade asked. When Rosalie gawked at him he burst out laughing. “Oh my God, I’m kidding, Rosalie. I don’t really have an elevator. You should’ve seen the look on your face though.”
He picked up a large tray with their two meals, the salads, napkins, and utensils. He grinned when Rosalie gave him the stink eye, then picked up their glasses of wine before heading toward the stairs. Zade made a pit stop on the way out of the kitchen, grabbing some candles and a lighter from the pantry.
They made their way up to the second floor, Rosalie following behind Zade this time as he led her to the master suite. He was glad he was in front of Rosalie so he didn’t have to see her expression. He suspected his master bedroom was larger than her entire house—and for the first time, he could understand how opulent it all must seem. He opened the French doors to the balcony, setting the tray onto the weathered stone–topped table. Fairy lights lined the railing, and large potted plants spilling over with an array of colors circled the perimeter of the space.
Rosalie gasped. “I love this view even
more than the one downstairs,” she said, taking in the city.
“It’s why I moved in here,” he said honestly. “A house would be too big for just me, and I don’t have time to take care of the land. Hell, I’m not even the one with the green thumb. Zada’s the magician behind these plants. My hands were made for surgery, and hers were made for planting.”
They sat down, Zade pulling Rosalie’s chair out for her first. It was a small, four-person table, as he was the only one who used this space. But the cozy intimacy it offered felt better than the large and spacious loft that Rosalie seemed intimidated by.
“So,” he said, lighting the candles, “you were telling me about the Del Vecchio brothers. You seem to know a lot of people in town for not really knowing them,” he observed.
Rosalie placed her napkin on her lap, playing with the corner for a moment.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. I’m just curious about your life, Rosalie.”
She sighed, but straightened in her chair as she met Zade’s eyes. “I went to school with a lot of kids, believe it or not. The Del Vecchio brothers were pretty popular because they all played sports. We’re not as die-hard as Texas about football,” she joked, “but the schools take their teams pretty seriously. It’s one of the few ways most people get into college from around here.
“Did you ever play football back in Dallas?” she asked, taking a bite of her salad. She made a little moan again as she savored the soft, buttery croutons.
“No. I didn’t grow up in Dallas.”
He could tell she was surprised by this. “I grew up in a small town in New York, just north of Syracuse. My entire family lived there—though most have either passed away or moved by now. Zada and I both left for college, but my parents stayed there until my dad passed away about five years ago,” he said, picking up his fork and spearing a hunk of steak. “My mother was lost without him, so Zada talked her into moving down here so she wouldn’t be alone. So she did, and the rest is history, as they say.”
