Rewind It Back (Windy City, #5)(33)

“Thanks for protecting my ego.”

I playfully roll my eyes. This man has never had an ego needing protection. He’s a goofball who has no problem making a fool out of himself to allow those around him to let down their guards.

I take another sip of my latte because holy shit, this is good, and as someone who loves a luxury espresso drink but can’t afford to splurge, this is everything right now.

“Feel free to practice that latte art on me anytime you want. This is delicious. Thank you.”

He leans a hip on the kitchen counter across from me, watching me drink. “You’re welcome.”

Taking another sip, this time a bit of foam sticks to my upper lip. I don’t think twice about cleaning it off with a slow slide of my tongue until I look up to find him watching the whole thing.

His green eyes are hooded and focused on my mouth.

“It’s good.”

He hums, his attention lasered in. “Good.”

Friends.

“Do you want to try it?” Good Lord, why does my voice sound like that? It’s all breathy and soft.

He wets his own lips as his phone rings, breaking the moment. With a quick clear of his throat, he checks the screen where his dad’s name is large enough for both of us to see.

The energy changes once again when Rio’s glare hardens, looking at the screen then up to me. “I have to take this, but I’ll make it quick,” he says, slipping into a room down the hall before closing the door behind him.

I don’t give myself a moment to wonder what his relationship with his dad is like these days.

Because we’re friends. Professional, working friends.

Friends who stare at each other’s mouths, but friends, nonetheless.

And since I’m here doing my job, I take myself on a self-guided tour of the first floor.

Rio’s walls are all white, like he said. It doesn’t seem like anything has been done since the day he bought the house. Builder-grade gray carpet lines the living room, dining room, and hallway. The floor in the kitchen is a square tile with swirls of gray and beige, and the backsplash is a stark-white subway tile. The countertops are a black and tan granite with heavy contrast, and the cabinets are a dark faux wood.

There’s nothing innately wrong with this house. It’s still considered new when you think of the lifespan of a home, but it also doesn’t have much personality. And for this home to be Rio’s, the man who has more personality in his little finger than most people have in their whole being, feels wrong.

It’s also screaming frat house thanks to the empty liquor bottles lining the top of the cabinets and the Xbox in the living room, which has been transformed into a home theater, with more controls than I’ve ever seen attached to a single console. The furniture is mismatched, as if he just needed enough seating for everyone and couldn’t care less about the aesthetics of it all.

If there’s one thing this little tour of mine confirms for me, it’s that his friends and teammates spend a lot of their time off here, and space for them is a priority to him.

I’d write that down in my notebook if I felt like I needed the reminder, but him making others a priority is an ingrained part of him that I’ve known about since I was eleven.

The door to the first-floor bedroom opens, but Rio’s attention is glued to his phone as he ends the call with his dad. His jaw is tight, his nostrils flaring a bit on his way back to meet me.

I should ask if everything is okay, but us broaching the topic of either of our families right now would only blur that professional and friendly line we’re attempting to toe.

“Should we talk about design concepts?” I ask instead. “I brought some color palette examples so I could get an idea of what speaks to you.”

He glances at his phone one more time before he focuses back on me with a quick nod of his head. “I have no idea what that means, but yeah.”

I chuckle, taking a seat at the table while he chooses the one directly next to me, regardless that there are about six other options that’d give us some distance.

I allow him a moment to scan the books out on the table, some showcasing light and airy aesthetics, others a bit darker and moodier. Some have character in every inch of their designs and others are more simplistic and modern.

“Do any of these draw your eye? Do you see anything that you’d like to wake up to every morning?”

Waiting for his response, I pull my attention from the books to him.

Only to find him already looking at me.

“Do you still listen to music?” he asks out of nowhere.

“What?”

“When something big happens. Do you still attach a song to it so you can remember it when you relisten? The first day of a new house project, for example.”

Nostalgia floods me. All those nights on the roof between our houses. All the mixtapes and CDs I gave him over the years.

But there hasn’t been much good that’s worth remembering of late.

I shake my head, quickly averting my attention back to the design books. “I don’t do that anymore.”

Out of my periphery, I watch him grab his phone, tapping away on the screen before, suddenly, a smooth and steady rhythm begins to play over the surround-sound speakers in his house. The song is soft and melodic before a keyboard filters in, accompanying the beat.

I recognize it as a popular song we used to listen to growing up, but it never made one of the yearly playlists. He mentioned a few times that he felt it should’ve.