One is of a much younger Caleb dressed in a cap and gown and standing with a middle-aged man and woman I assume are his parents. In another, he doesn’t look much older. His smile is even wider, and he’s holding a newborn Seda. The next image is another of him and Seda. This time, he’s kneeling, arms held out for a baby who looks wobbly on her feet. In another, Seda is covered in spaghetti sauce. My favorite is the one with Seda on Caleb’s shoulders. They’re standing in front of a carousel, and she’s licking a rapidly melting ice cream cone. Caleb’s face is alight with laughter, and the ice cream is dripping onto his hair and forehead.
I venture into the living room space next. Though our houses are similar in size, the lack of walls make his feel much larger than mine. The sectional couch looks like a cloud. It’s low and white and fluffy, tempting me to dive onto it and sink into the cushions, never to be seen or heard from again.
The bookshelves are filled with everything from self-help books and law texts to children’s and middle grade books. There are even a few fantasy novels tossed in. I pull out a thick tome and read the blurb before sliding it back onto the bookshelf.
The upright piano beneath the front window makes my heart ache with a long-forgotten desire. As a girl, I’d wanted to learn to play an instrument more than anything. But I quickly found out something like that took money and time we didn’t have.
Gently, I tap a few keys. It sounds horrible, but it still makes me smile. Maybe one day, when things are better, I’ll learn. That could be fun.
As much as I want to continue snooping, I rein in my curiosity and plop down on the couch.
Instantly, a sigh escapes me.God. It’s so comfy.
I sink into the plush pillows, tipping my head back and closing my eyes. I could easily fall asleep here. It’s like a cocoon, holding me gently and practically rocking me to sleep.
I wonder what Caleb would think if he came down and found me curled up asleep on his couch.
Again, he probably wouldn’t bat an eye. Hell, he’d probably cover me with a blanket and go on about his day.
Luckily, I don’t have to put that theory to the test. When I hear his feet on the stairs, I straighten. A heartbeat later, he appears, jogging down the steps, bringing with him the scent of his woodsy, masculine soap. Wet like this, his hair is light brown instead of blond. His gym clothes have been replaced by jeans and a t-shirt, and he’s barefoot. It makes sense, this being his house and all, but the casualness of the sight is strangely intimate.
I scoot forward and push off the couch. Only it’s so low and deep that I get up about halfway before I flop back down on the cushions.
He bursts into laughter, the sound low and rich, lighting up my nerve endings. Maybe I should be embarrassed. Instead, I’m filled with a sense of pride. I get the impression he doesn’t laugh like that often, so it makes me unreasonably happy to be the one to make him sound like that.
“Your couch is trying to eat me.”
He sidesteps the coffee table and holds out a hand. “It’ll do that. I’ll help.”
I slide my hand into his, trying to ignore the warmth of his skin and the contentment that soaks into me on contact. Instead, I focus on using him as the stability I need to find my balance.
“Thanks.” Only as I smooth my hand down the front of my t-shirt, do I wonder if I should’ve dressed up more, worn a more professional outfit. This is a trial run, after all, but there’s nothing I can do about it now.
“Office is this way.” He nods toward the stairs and heads that way, so, with a deep breath, I follow.
If he’s really okay with this, then I’ll get over my concerns about his tendency to fix the problems of others. Because I couldn’t ask for a more ideal working situation. I’d be right next door, so if the boys needed me, I’d be easy to get to. And I can’t imagine that Caleb would be upset if I needed to pop over and check on them on occasion. He has a kid of his own. He knows how it can be.
Upstairs, he leads me to the room at the very end of the hallway and gestures for me to step inside first.
Every aspect of this home is impressive. The walls, baseboards, crown molding, ceiling, and even the bookcases behind his desk are all painted the same shade of dark olive green. I never could have imagined a room this dark could feel anything but claustrophobia-inducing. But this space is the complete opposite. It’s warm and cozy. Downright homey. Within seconds of setting footinside, I itch to pluck a book off the shelf and curl into the leather chair in the corner.
“I love this room,” I blurt out.
He chuckles, the low sound rumbling through me. “Thanks. Having a workspace I enjoy being in makes work a little less tedious.”
“I bet.”
He pulls out the chair behind the computer, gesturing for me to sit.
Once I’ve settled, he spins the chair so I’m facing the iMac on the desk. The screen practically beckons me to run my fingers along its sides. It’s sleek, modern, and like everything else here, it’s green.
The desk is bare of anything besides the desktop, keyboard, and mouse.
“Where are all your”—I wave a hand over the spotless surface—“knickknacks and stuff? Like sticky notes and pens and?—”
Lips curling in amusement, he pulls out a drawer. It’s extremely organized, but sure enough, there’s a cup with blue pens, another with black, and a third with red. Sticky notes in a variety of colors, a stapler, and a jar of paperclips. He closes it and opens the next. Envelopes and mailers of varying size. The third drawer is full of printer paper. He moves behind me and opens the top drawer on my left. It’s full of documents. The one below it is filled with files.
“If you need anything else, let me know, and I’ll pick it up.” He shuts the last drawer and turns to face the bookcase. He slips a small, thin book off the shelf and sets it in front of me.
