Free Undersold by B. B. Hamel Page A

close, and kissed me. I melted into his embrace and wrapped my arms around his shoulders. He tasted like himself plus something spicy, and it was pleasant as he rolled his tongue against mine.
    We pulled apart after a few moments. I felt like his lips left a trace on mine.
    “Hope you’re hungry,” he said.
    “Just a little bit,” I said, mind swarming with hunger for something that wasn’t food.
    He laughed. “I’ve been slaving over a hot stove all day.”
    He moved away and for a second I almost reached out to pull him back, but stopped myself. He stirred something on the stove that smelled incredible, rich and savory, maybe a hint of garlic and spice. I sat down at the kitchen island and watched him work.
    “Should be done soon. I hope you like pasta,” he said.
    After fifteen minutes of chatting and cooking, dinner was ready. He took off his apron when he came over to join me. We ate at the kitchen island, and his food impressed me. The pasta was perfectly done, and it was clear he had made the sauce himself from scratch. I was starting to think maybe his comment about being stuck in the office was a little white lie, but I wasn’t going to call him on it. This had clearly taken more time than he said it had.
    Things were easy and pleasant between us. We talked about work, but not too much. We ranged between movies and TV shows we’ve watched, and he told me more about his life in Philadelphia. Apparently, his family was from the city, a ‘classic South Philly clan’ was how he put it. I told him about being from the suburbs and Levittown. We finished eating and lingered over our plates, both unwilling to end such an easy and nice part of the night.
    “You have a beautiful house,” I said.
    “Thank you. George Washington used to live here for a little bit.”
    I was stunned. “Is that true?”
    “Nope, not at all. But I still tell people it is,” he said, grinning.
    I smacked him lightly on the arm. “I didn’t expect this, honestly.”
    “What did you expect?”
    “I don’t know. Something more modern. Expensive-looking.”
    “You should have realized that I’m not into being flashy. This place is pretty much as original as possible. Most of the furniture is colonial as well, I think. I’m not totally sure. I hired someone to decorate.”
    I laughed. “That’s what I guessed. Whoever it was did a great job.”
    He leaned in close to me with a mischievous look on his face. “Want the tour?”
    I smiled. “I’d love that.”
    He stood up and cleared our dishes. Once they were in the sink, he pulled off his apron, and put his hand out for me. “Right this way.”
    ––––––––
    W e went back out into the hall and he pointed out some of the paintings. They were all early American, and he said some of them were actually by important artists, though I didn’t recognize any names. He led me further down the hall, back to the foyer, and up a staircase. My heart began to flutter; it was pretty obvious what his game was, but I still felt nervous and excited.
    At the top of the stairs, he turned left, and took me into a large, open bedroom space that must have been half the upper floor. A huge bed in the middle dominated the room. A chair and a couch took up one wall, and the others were covered in bookshelves, with a large wooden desk on the last wall. There were small antiques everywhere and more paintings lined the walls. It looked more like a library than a bedroom.
    “Is this your office or where you sleep?” I asked.
    He grinned at me. “A bit of both, honestly. I like books; I’ve always been a huge reader. So it’s comforting to have them around.”
    I walked over to a shelf and ran my fingers over their spines. Titles I recognized and titles I didn’t, hundreds of them in all directions. I was a pretty big reader, too, but didn’t have nearly as many books as he did. I guessed only the public library did, or maybe the local universities.
    He came up behind me as I was