She looks up suddenly, straight at the window, and our eyes meet.
For a second, neither of us moves. Then she's scrambling off the bed, and I'm backing away from the window, and this is a disaster. I was literally standing outside her apartment watching her through the window like a stalker.
The door opens before I can flee. She's wrapped a blanket around herself, and she's looking at me with wide eyes and flushed cheeks.
"Henry? What are you doing?"
"I—"Think, you idiot."The storm. I wanted to check if your heat's working. That unit's old, and in this weather—"
It's not entirely a lie. It's just not the whole truth.
She blinks, clearly surprised. "Oh. Um. Yes? I think so? It feels warm."
"Can I check it anyway? I don't want it to go out overnight and you freeze."
She steps back, letting me in. The apartment is indeed warm, which means the heat is fine, which means I'm a liar and she probably knows it.
But she doesn't call me out. Instead, she hovers near the door, clutching that blanket around her shoulders, while I make a show of checking the heating unit in the corner. It's working perfectly.
"Everything looks good," I say, straightening.
"Okay. Thanks for checking."
I should leave. I should go back to the main house and my own bed and stop making a fool of myself. But then I make the mistake of really looking at her.
She's backlit by the soft lamp beside her bed, the blanket slipping off one shoulder, her hair tousled like she's beenrunning her hands through it. Her legs are bare beneath that t-shirt, thick thighs that would feel perfect wrapped around my waist, and her eyes are soft and uncertain and so goddamn beautiful I can't breathe.
Seven years of putting Lilliana first, of being careful, of not letting anyone close. Seven years of being alone.
And now Maren's standing here in front of me, looking like every fantasy I've ever had, and I'm so tired of being careful.
"Can I ask you something?" The words are out before I can stop them.
"Of course."
"Why do you look sad?"
She blinks, surprised by the question. "I wasn't—I mean, I was just—" She stops, sighs. "I was checking my bank account. Depressing stuff."
"Money trouble?"
"You could say that." She gives a humorless laugh. "My dad's business went under, and they're drowning. I've been sending money home, but it's not enough. It's never enough."
Something fierce and protective rises in my chest. "How much do they need?"
"Henry, I didn't tell you so you'd—"
"How much?"
She's quiet for a moment, then: "About thirty thousand for the down payment on something smaller. Something they can actually afford. But that's—it's a lot. It'll take me a couple years to save that much, and by then—"
"I'll give it to you."
Her eyes go wide. "What? No. Absolutely not."
"Maren."
"No." She steps forward, adamant. "You're already paying me more than any nanny makes. You're letting me live in thisbeautiful apartment rent-free. You feed me, for god's sake. I'm not taking more money from you."
