“You say that like you don’t know.”
I blush a little, because of course I know how old he is. We might not have known each other before now, but I have at least basic knowledge of everyone who is close to the various members of the Thirteen. “You haven’t been living alone so long that you’ve forgotten your childhood home.”
He fiddles with his fork. “You know who my mother is. Do you really think my childhood home was even remotely as warm as yours?”
“Well, it can’t be that warm if it’s designed like this place.”
“What’s wrong with this place?”
I flick my fingers at the mirror behind me. “What’s with all the mirrors? I can theoretically understand it in the foyer as an art thing, and even in the bedroom as a kinky thing, but they’re everywhere.”
“Ah.” He stares at his plate for a long moment. “I mostly let my interior decorator do their thing. It was easier, and it’s not like I have strong opinions about it.”
This interior decorator is someone hired by Aphrodite. I’d bet a significant amount of money on it. I hesitate, trying to parse my way through this without sounding like a complete asshole. “Eros, this is your home. You’re allowed to put your stamp on it.”
“Am I?” His mouth twists. “I suppose that depends on who you ask.”
I open my mouth to keep arguing, but my brain catches up to my tongue before I can make a complete fool of myself. It’s more than obvious who he’s talking about. Still… “I know Aphrodite isn’t a very good mother, but…”
He gives me a smile devoid of his normal charm. “There’s no ‘but’ in that sentence, Psyche. I’m glad that you grew up in a place that feels like a home and that Demeter preserved that feeling even if things changed after you moved here. It’s just not my experience.” He goes back to eating as if the subject’s closed.
I suppose it is.
I made fun of this penthouse the first night here. I continued to poke at his design choices, assuming that, at least in this, he is as clichéd as he pretends to be. The playboy millionaire with more money than taste, who mistakes minimalism for the peak of style. The more soulless, the better.
Except every time he talks about my mother’s home, there’s a thread of something in his tone that’s almost like…longing.
I look around the dining room again, my mind whirling. “Would you be opposed to my making some changes?” I hold up a hand when he lifts his brows. “Nothing too intense. Just a few things to put a little bit of my stamp on the space, too.” I honestly don’t mind the sheer number of mirrors, but they need something to soften them.
The smile Eros gives me has my heart fluttering in my chest. “I’d like that.”
“Good,” I say softly. It’s a small thing, but it feels very large. Too large for me to look at closely. Instead, I focus on my meal.
I eat slowly. The food is good, but it’s the silence that comforts me. It’s not strained. I have the strange feeling that Eros would be perfectly content occupying the same room for hours without talking if he had nothing to say. He might pretend to be the pretty playboy, but he doesn’t run his mouth for the sole purpose of hearing himself talk.
I’ve always liked silence. I think it comes from living with three sisters and a mother who are all talkers. They talk when they’re happy, sad, angry, or even bored. No one in my family would be content to eat a meal without filling the room with some kind of running commentary. There’s a comfort in that, but when my stress level reaches a certain point, it becomes just one more thing that weighs on me. I like that Eros doesn’t have the same urge. It makes this space feel almost safe.
A feeling I most certainly cannot afford.
I take a hasty sip of wine. Since Eros was in a sharing mood earlier, there’s something I desperately want to know. Now seems as good a time as any to ask. “I’d like to ask you a question.”
“I’ll consider answering.”
That’s fair. I swallow hard. “Why do you do it? All the stuff your mom demands? This isn’t the first time she’s called for someone’s head.”
“Heart.”
I blink. “What?”
“She didn’t call for your head. She called for your heart.” He takes another bite of food without looking at me.
Somehow, I know he’s not speaking figuratively. The thought almost makes me laugh, but I manage to keep the hysterical sound inside. “Your mother is such a bitch.”