Behind the Mask 4

I know this is insane. I stared at Damon's text again, then lifted my eyes to the towering house behind the iron gates. Be here at 7. Don't be late. No greeting, no explanation, just an order that somehow had me standing at his front door instead of turning around.

I should have deleted his number and walked away. Instead, I pushed open the gate and followed the long stone driveway toward the house. Every step made the knot in my stomach tighten, but I kept going.

The house looked nothing like a professor's home. Dark glass, sharp lines, high walls, and cameras tucked beneath the eaves gave the place the kind of quiet that made me glance over my shoulder. Even the neatly trimmed hedges looked too perfect, as if nobody was allowed to disturb them.

When I reached the front door, I raised my hand to knock. The door shifted beneath my knuckles and swung inward by a few inches. I stared at the opening, wondering whether I should wait outside or take the invitation.

"Damon?" I called.

Nothing answered. I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The entrance swallowed me whole. Marble stretched beneath my feet, dark wood climbed the walls, and expensive paintings hung beneath warm recessed lights. I slowed as I looked around, wondering how a man who spent his days lecturing students had managed to build a place that felt more like a private fortress.

My shoes barely made a sound against the floor. There were no voices, no television, no footsteps from another room. The silence pressed against my ears until I caught myself wondering whether Damon really lived here alone.

I glanced toward the staircase. A wedding photograph would have looked out of place here, but so would a woman's handbag or a pair of shoes by the door. I immediately hated the direction my thoughts were taking, so I shoved my hands into my pockets and looked away.

Then footsteps sounded above me.

I turned.

Damon stood at the top of the curved staircase, a black towel tied low around his hips. Water slid from his damp hair onto his shoulders, tracing slow paths across his chest before disappearing beneath the edge of the towel.

My gaze dropped before I could stop it. Broad shoulders, a defined stomach, and the sharp lines of his hips caught my attention for one humiliating second too long.

His eyebrow lifted.

"If you're done staring, Tyler," he said, his voice calm enough to make my face burn, "you can get to work."

"I wasn't staring." The lie left my mouth so quickly that even I didn't believe it. Damon didn't bother arguing; the faint curve of his mouth was enough.

I cleared my throat and looked toward the hallway. "Where's the kitchen?"

"Follow me."

He descended the stairs without another word. I followed, keeping a careful distance between us and wondering why walking behind him suddenly felt like the hardest part of the evening.

The kitchen was almost as impressive as the rest of the house. Stainless-steel appliances lined one wall, dark cabinets stretched to the ceiling, and every surface was spotless enough to make me afraid of leaving a fingerprint.

I washed my hands and rolled up my sleeves. "What do you want?"

"Surprise me."

I looked over my shoulder. "You brought me here to cook, but you don't actually have anything you want?"

"Apparently, you're the chef."

I clenched my jaw. "Right."

I opened the refrigerator and found enough ingredients to feed a small family. Chicken, vegetables, fresh herbs, rice, and everything else I needed were arranged with almost irritating precision.

I settled on grilled chicken, seasoned rice, and vegetables. Chopping usually helped me concentrate, but tonight every sound seemed louder than it should have been, and the knife struck the board in a steady rhythm, chop, slide, gather, chop.

I felt his eyes before I saw him.

Damon stood against the counter across from me, arms folded, watching without saying a word. I looked down at the onion in my hand and nearly sliced too close to my finger.

"You're going to cut yourself."

"I know what I'm doing."

"Do you?"

I looked up sharply.

His expression hadn't changed, but something in his eyes made me grip the knife tighter. "You invited me here to cook, not to supervise me."

"I wanted to see whether you could handle pressure."

My fingers paused around the knife. "Is that what this is?"

His gaze held mine for another second before his phone rang.

He checked the screen, and the change in his expression was immediate. Whatever amusement had been there disappeared as he stepped away from the counter.

"I'll be back."

He walked out of the kitchen before I could respond.

I released the breath I'd been holding and turned back to the cutting board. "What is wrong with this man?"

The vegetables didn't answer, but at least they didn't stare at me.

I finished cooking without further interruptions. When I carried the plates into the dining room, Damon still hadn't returned.

The table was already set, complete with silverware and a vase of fresh flowers. I adjusted one of the plates, then caught myself looking at the flowers again.

For someone who lived alone, Damon had an annoying eye for detail.

The door opened behind me.

I turned and found Damon walking into the room, his phone gone and his expression unreadable. He pulled out the nearest chair and sat without asking whether the food was ready.

I remained standing.

He picked up his fork.

"Sit."

I frowned. "I thought I was here to cook."

"You cooked."

"And now?"

"Now you wait."

I pulled out the chair across from him and sat down. The room fell quiet except for the faint scrape of his fork against the plate.

I watched him take the first bite.

His expression barely changed.

"Well?" I asked before I could stop myself.

He took another bite.

"It's good."

Somehow those two words pleased me more than they should have.

I looked down at my hands, pretending to inspect my fingers so he wouldn't see the stupid smile threatening the corner of my mouth. Then his hand moved across the table, and the chandelier caught the silver ring on his finger.

My smile disappeared.

The ring was plain, squared at the edges, with nothing distinctive enough to make it memorable. Yet the moment I saw it, something stirred at the back of my mind. I'd seen that ring somewhere else. I was sure of it. I just couldn't say where.

Watching him now, the line of his throat when he swallowed, the unhurried way he did everything, that same feeling crept back in. Not just his voice, not just the ring. Something about the whole shape of him felt like a word on the tip of my tongue. I wondered, stupidly, if we'd met somewhere before all this.

That was the moment Damon looked up and caught me staring.