Chapter 30

“Hooooly crap,” Christian murmurs, staring around the main room of the penthouse as he slowly closes the door behind him.

In the kitchen I press my hands together, thrilled with the changes and hoping, desperately, that he likes it too.

“I hate it,” Nico says, standing stubbornly in the middle of the living room with his arms crossed. “Make her get rid of it all.”

“Oh, shut up, Nick,” Frankie says, spreading cheese onto another cracker and shoving it into his mouth, “it’s amazing in here now, you’re just being a brat.”

I grin, looking around the room, agreeing with Frankie because…well, because I agree. The apartment is so much more homey now. There are throw blankets and pillows that actually match, and more cohesive art for the walls, and – most important – a little dining room table that is completely set with a matching set of china for dinner.

“Are you hungry?” I ask Christian as he slowly walks towards me. “Please tell me you’re hungry.”

“Iris,” he murmurs, smiling slightly and shaking his head. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

“You can’t live on take out, Christian,” I sigh.

“Yes, we can!” Nico protests.

Christian and I both ignore him. “Thank you,” he says, sighing and looking around as he slips a brotherly arm around my shoulders, giving me a little squeeze. “You have…really good taste, Iris.”

“It’s easy to have good taste when you can afford it,” I say, moving away from him and into the kitchen to pour him a glass of wine. “Now, go change into something comfortable. Dinner’s ready in ten.”

“Dinner?” Christian asks, taking the drink I hold out to him and raising an eyebrow.

“There were appetizers, but Frankie ate them all,” I say with a sigh, which just makes Christian laugh.

“You’re seriously going to let her take over like this!?” Nico protests, casting out a hand.

“Don’t listen to him, Chris,” Frankie intercedes, shaking his head. “She got him a bed – and all the bathrooms have candles now, they smell amazing – it’s great here now -”

“Dinner’s in ten!” Christian calls over his shoulder as he heads into his room with his glass of wine, still laughing and clearly taking mine and Frankie’s side. I squeak a little with joy at my victory and bustle about the kitchen, getting finishing touches on everything and starting to spread it out on the table.

Frankie, to my pleasure, comes to help.

“You’re in a very different mood today, Iris,” he notes, helpfully taking a basket of bread rolls and a plate of butter into our new dining area. “Is this really all it takes? A more homey atmosphere?”

“Well, I mean, I still want a phone and to be allowed to go outside,” I say, rolling my eyes and carrying the large roasted brisket with me. “But…I mean, yeah, I get a lot of pleasure out of making a home, caring for people.” I shrug. “Is that so much of a surprise?”

He places the rolls and butter on the already-full table before slipping his hands into his pockets and shaking his head at me in wonder. “Seriously, Iris, the moment we get out of here I’m taking you to a chapel.”

I burst into laughter, holding up my left hand towards him as I head back into the kitchen for the vegetables. “Where’s the ring, Frankie!?”

“Just waiting for grandma to die, babe!” he replies, grinning and following me into the kitchen to grab the decanter of wine. “Then I’ll give you the nice big diamond of your dreams – family heirloom and all.”

Christian comes out of his room as I dim the lights, looking around at the spread on the table with pleasure. “You really know the way to a bunch of Italian boys’ hearts, Iris,” he says, sitting down at the head of the table without bothering to ask whether or not that’s his place. “A dinner like this? Damn.”

“Well, I purposefully didn’t make anything Italian,” I say with a sigh, putting a bowl of peas and another of roasted carrots onto the table. “I knew it wouldn’t live up.”

“She is wise,” Frankie murmurs, reaching for a the mashed potatoes. I smack his hand and he pulls it back with a dramatic hiss. “What!?” he asks, “is all the food just for show?”

“No touching until we all come to the table,” I say, glancing over at Nico, who sits stubbornly on the couch.

“Nic,” Christian calls, his voice low with warning. “Get over here.”

“I don’t really see the point in playing happy family,” Nico snaps, not even looking at us. I shake my head at him, wondering legitimately what his problem is. I mean why, really, does he hate this so much? Who would so stubbornly turn down a delicious dinner and a more comfortable house?

“Don’t speak to my wife like that,” Frankie calls back, playful. Christian just smirks and says Nico’s name one more time. Nico sighs and gets up, walking petulantly over to us and sitting down in his chair.

To my surprise, then, all three young men place their elbows on the table and fold their hands, bowing their heads as Christian murmurs a quick prayer of thanks – the words rushed and murmured, clearly more ceremony than actual worship. But it’s obviously something they’ve done a thousand times before.

When Christian raises his head, he catches my eye and smirks as all three start to reach for food, filling their plates. “What?” he asks.

“When did you get religious?” I inquire, sitting back in my chair and taking a moment of simple pleasure in watching them all spoon food onto their plates.

He shrugs. “In this family,” he replies, standing to cut the meat and parcel pieces out of it onto Nico and Frankie’s plates, “it wasn’t really a choice.”

I shrug, understanding that, even though I’m still surprised. Christian’s mom was never religious, and neither was my family. We did Christmas, but mostly in a commercial sense, never in a Christ-is-born sort of way. It’s just surprising, I guess, to see a new change in Christian – seeing him become a man who prays before eating a home-cooked meal.

What else do I have left to discover about this man who is half stranger, half someone I know as well as the back of my own hand?

I shrug off the surprise, though, falling into the easy conversation at the table and filling my own plate for a moment. I smile as I eat, only half listening to Frankie and Christian talk about sports, because the food really is good – but of course it is. These are dishes I’ve cooked a thousand times, American staples that I could do with my eyes closed.

Even Nico, I smile to see, begrudgingly goes back for seconds. I’m not surprised, though – takeout is nice every once in a while, but nothing beats a home-cooked meal.

“So,” Frankie says, interrupting my line of thought, “is this like, normal now? Iris is going to cook for us? Because quite frankly, I feel myself ready to put on a few husband pounds.” He smacks his stomach, emphasizing his point.

“I’ll eat whatever Iris cooks,” Christian says with a shrug, “as long as it makes her happy to do it.” He looks to me now, silently asking if that’s the truth. “You’re not like…obliged to do anything, Iris. You know that.”

“I do know that,” I say with a happy sigh as I survey the mostly-empty plates before me. “But it really does make me happy to do, so,” I shrug, “for now, I am happy to do it.”

Christian nods, holding my gaze, clearly understanding my point: that this is maybe enough for the moment, playing house with my oldest friend and his two bodyguards. But at some point, down the line?

I’m definitely going to need more than this.

But…yes. For now, it’s better than just watching TV all day.

“Well, what’s on the menu for tomorrow?” Frankie asks, eager.

I open my mouth to reply, but Christian interrupts me with a steady sigh, putting his fork down. I close my mouth, looking at him with surprise as he glances around the table.

“Tomorrow,” he says, his voice half angry and half disappointed, “there has been…a change of plans.”

I sit up straight in my shock because…

Something is happening here, isn’t it? And it’s something that Christian does not like – not at all.