“Your loss.” I follow him up the short flight of steps leading to the bright red front door. I let out a longing sigh, trailing my fingers over the cherry paint. “I love a pop of color on the front door.”
He turns a key in the lock and pushes the door open. “It was brown when I bought it. I decided to paint it red.”
I wait for the rest of that thrilling story, but Jack just awkwardly sweeps his arm out, gesturing for me to enter. Taking a deep breath, I pray the inside isn’t some kind of disgusting frat house bachelor pad. I even close my eyes as I step into the front room, crossing my fingers before opening them, scared all of my just-developed dreams might be dashed. I squint, slowly inching my lids open.
Oh god.
It’s good.
Real good.
It’s so so so good.
Definitely better than my last five one-night stands. Combined.
The front room is open and inviting, the walls a bright white, original molding still in fantastic shape. A comfortable-looking sofa sits across from a brick fireplace surrounded by built-in bookshelves, filled to the brim. In the back of the first floor is the biggest New York kitchen I’ve ever seen, with white cabinets and butcher-block counters. Bar stools line the peninsula, and a wooden farm table separates the living space from the kitchen. Behind the kitchen, a pair of French doors lead out into what I assume is the backyard.
My mouth is just permanently open from this point on.
Jack lets me look around, leaning against the arm of the couch while I explore the first level on my own.
When I reverently run my fingers along the perfectly worn wood countertops, he gestures to a staircase leading to a lower level. “The basement is kind of a hangout space. Couch, TV, pool table.”
“Video game console?” I give his nerdy T-shirt a pointed look before making my way back toward the front and the stairs leading to the upper levels.
“Every single one you could ask for.” He says it like that’s some sort of accomplishment, gesturing for me to make my way upstairs.
The man might be awkward, but I like that he doesn’t flinch under my snarky words. If we’re going to be roommates—and I’ve already decided we’re going to be roommates—he’s going to have to get used to my sharp tongue.
“Your room would be the one on the left.”
I push through the door, and while I wouldn’t have thought it possible, my mouth drops even lower. The room is huge. And not by New Yorker standards but by actual people standards. A queen-sized bed stands center on the far wall, there’s a large bay window, and there’s a goddamn fireplace. In the bedroom. Everything is white, making the space look even larger, but despite the lack of color, the room feels warm and cozy. Once my plants move in, it’ll be the perfect space for me.
“This would be your bathroom.”
“Mine? As in all for me?” I don’t actually want to leave this bedroom—I’m tempted to just curl up under the quilt and refuse to vacate—but the call of an all-to-myself bathroom is too great. And yeah, I have my own bathroom now, but it kind of sucks, and never in my apartment-sharing life have I ever had a bathroom to myself.
Peeking my head in, I have to grab on to the door to keep from fainting. “Is that a claw-foot tub?”
Jack leans against the hallway wall. “That it is.”
“I think I just orgasmed.”
A choke sounding suspiciously laughlike rumbles out of him, and it’s in that moment I think this might actually work.
Jack pushes off the wall, gesturing to two closed doors. “My room and the other guest room.” He starts to walk back downstairs.
I cross to the stairs leading to another upper level. Because of course there’s another level. “What’s up there?”
Jack stumbles on the steps, catching himself before he tumbles down. “Oh, nothing. Just storage space. I’d ask that you not go up there.”
“VeryBeauty and the Beast.” I lower my voice into a deep rumble. “ ‘The west wing is forbidden.’ ”
He doesn’t even crack a smile despite my spot-on impression. Instead he continues walking, throwing over his shoulder, “Did you want to see the backyard?”
“Fuck yeah I do!” I bound down the steps, beating him to the first level and the French doors leading out back.
I don’t wait for permission; I push them open, waiting to stumble into my own personal Eden, ready for this yard to be the cherry on top of this perfect New York fantasy sundae.
