Page 20 of Promise Me Never

“Isabel. Good friend. Known her forever.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Looks like more than friends.”

He shook his head. “Just friends! You’ll meet her. Our families go way back. She and my sister, Janie, were best friends.”

“Were?”

His face grew serious. “Janie died. It was years ago.”

“I’m so sorry. I know how hard that is. I lost my sister too.” I put the picture back and turned to him, trying to lighten the mood. “What smells so delicious?”

“That must be my mother’s special rice recipe. It’s browned in butter, then doused with cinnamon. So much that the recipe says to keep shaking the cinnamon for two minutes.”

“Sounds decadent.”

“There’s a roast chicken as well.”

We sat down on the sofa, and I shifted so I could face him. Since he’d brought up his mother, I decided to probe. “Are you close to your mom?”

He grew quiet, looking into his wine glass and then taking a sip. “We used to be.”

I waited for him to go on, but he didn’t. I decided to press. My new dating resolution was no games, no holds barred. If he got pissed, the worst that would happen is that I’d save some calories.

“What happened?”

“We’re doing this already?”

I shrugged. “I don’t believe in wasting time.”

He exhaled. “I’m the black sheep. When my father’s cereal company became so successful, it was expected that all his sons would work there. A Cromwell tradition. I did for a while, but my heart was never in it. I left the company and wrote my first book. My father died shortly afterward. My mother says I broke his heart. She’s never forgiven me.”

I was stunned. I had heard of the Cromwell family. Everyone had. I didn’t realize that Bennett was from a mega-rich family. “But your name—”

“Pen name.”

“Oh, I see.”

He took another sip of his wine. “I forfeited my trust fund, stock, everything. I wasn’t going to be one of those entitled silver-spoon brats taking years to write the great American novel. Everything I have, I earned.”

“That’s admirable. I know a little about what it’s like to walk away from everything and everyone to pursue your passion.” He’d gotten lucky to find such success with his writing. I’d yet to sell a piece of my art.

“Are you close to your parents?”

I nodded. “I was. Especially my dad, but they died in a house fire when I was in college. It was horrible.”

“Oh, Poppy, I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks. I really don’t like talking about it.” I blew out a breath. “Well, this conversation has taken a depressing turn. Let’s change the subject.”

“Okay. Tell me about your art.”

“I work in mixed media. I love to collect pieces with history. Old letters, photographs, mementos from the past that have found their way into thrift or antique shops.” I watched his face to see if he was genuinely interested or merely being polite. He seemed to be listening intently.

“That sounds so interesting. Do you work thematically with each project? Does what you find inspire the project, or do you have a theme in mind and then look for objects that support it?”

“That’s a thoughtful question. It depends. Both. I follow the inspiration wherever it leads me. Is that how you work? Do you start with a story or a character?”

“It’s usually a story I want to tell, but it can vary. But I wasn’t finished hearing about your process. I’d love to see some of your work,” he said.