Chapter 9: Dinner

He did make eggs.

He made them with chives and brown butter and a thick slice of sourdough.

He served them on white plates at the kitchen island.

"Breakfast for dinner," he said.

"This is the least billionaire thing I've ever seen."

"I'm a very simple billionaire."

"You have a wine fridge."

"It came with the apartment. I mostly use it for cheese."

I laughed, and the sound surprised me.

It was Monday-night easy in that huge glass kitchen, with the harbor lights below and the radio playing something low.

I ate two eggs and half his toast.

"What did your father do?" he said.

I put my fork down.

"He was a mail carrier. Thirty-one years, the same route in Dorchester. He knew every dog by name, and every dog's birthday."

"And he left you the money."

"He left me a life insurance policy and a box of letters. I still have the letters."

I smiled.

"I didn't want to spend the money on anything stupid. Then I handed it to a man with a nice jaw."

"The jaw was always the problem."

"Gregory."

"I'm told it's his best feature."

"You have a better one."

"I know." He said it with a perfectly straight face, and I hit his arm with the back of my hand.

He caught my wrist and turned it over, and kissed the inside of it.

The laughter went out of the room.

"I want to know about the scar," I said, lower.

He looked down at his own shirt.

"A crane hook at the Conley Terminal. I was twenty-two."

"My father said a Hargreave should work the docks first. A load swung, and the hook caught me under the ribs."

"Gregory."

"Eleven stitches and a lecture. I was back on the dock in three weeks."

He shrugged.

"That's the Hargreave way. You get hurt, and you pretend you didn't."

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