“Brayden?” I call. No answer. He might be asleep.Or passed out.Better an absent roommate than the man who put a lock around my neck and breathed hot over my skin.
Fine. If he doesn’t want to pick me up at the airport or haul my luggage, then he can’t be mad if I get myself up to…whatever bedroom I’m going to be sleeping in.Not his. I do a quick spin around the first floor: Living room with a cream-colored couch. Dining room with a glass and chrome table. Kitchen that, from the look of it, has never seen a meal. I return to the foyer and examine the high staircase that leads up the second floor. That must be where the bedrooms are. My suitcases aren’t that heavy. I made it all the way from California: I can make it up a few more stairs.
I pick up the bag, lug it up one riser.Oofas I suck in a breath.Ouchas it bangs against my shin. Stop. Breathe. Repeat. Oof, ouch, oof, ouch, until I’m halfway up the stairs and completely out of breath.
I go to the gym regularly, mostly for cardio and Pilates, but I don’t lift anything as heavy as this suitcase on a regular basis.That’s what bellhops are for. So much can be solved by a cash tip or looking helpless next to the nearest man.
No, I’m not helpless. I can do this. I got this far. I breathe in and prepare to get my suitcase up to the landing, when Brayden emerges from the upstairs hallway…in a towel.
His hair drips onto the wide beam of his shoulders. His face and chest are still flushed from steam. The towel circling his waist is tucked hastily, like it might come loose at any moment. If I focus on those details, I won’t stare at the rest of him—not the cut of his waist or the broad muscles of his chest or thoselittle divots above his hips. Or I won’t stare at him…much. “I, uh, was ringing the bell,” I say, ripping my gaze from his chest to his face.
“I was in the shower.”
“Yeah, I got that.”You could have let me know the front door was unlocked.Helping him improve his image didn’t mean getting treated like a doormat for two years. “The team sent a car to the airport.” I let that sink in for a second, then add, “For your new teammate. He gave me a ride.”
A muscle in Brayden’s jaw spasms. “Huh.” Then he grasps the towel in one hand and marches down the stairs, picks my suitcase up one-handed, and doesn’t wait for me to follow.
Upstairs, the house looks no more lived in than the first floor. Undecorated walls, carpet that smells brand new. “Did you just move in?” I ask.
“Been here all season.”
Meaning…he must like the house this way. Baseball players travel all the time. Maybe he just hasn’t had the chance to do much with the place.
I follow him down the hallway, past what was clearly his room, the open door revealing an unmade bed with deep blue sheets. For a minute, I get a flash of what he might look like against those, his eyes in the dark, hooded and blazing. Quickly, I replace that thought with a more realistic one: Brayden, with however many women have seen him on those sheets.
The door after that is shut. Brayden drops my suitcase in front of it, then ducks into his room, pulling the door shut behind him.Is that it…?But he emerges a second later in a T-shirt and a loose set of gray joggers.
He opens the door next to his room. A guest bedroom from the look of it—new furniture all in a matching set. Clean beige carpeting, dark curtains over the windows. It’s perfect. Except there’s a door installed along one wall that must lead into...
Brayden’s room. So this isn’tnextto his. It connects. Just one thin door between us. I eye the handle—it has one of those little push-button locks that I never quite trust.
“People will notice we’re in separate bedrooms,” I say.
“You want to sleep with me?”
“Absolutely not.” I glance around. I can make this work. Maybe. Probably. Possibly. My head gives a throb. “The bed’s nice.”
Brayden shrugs. “Decorator.”
Right. Of course. He doesn’t seem like the kind of person who spends time pondering headboards. “Did thedecoratornot care about decorating the walls?”
That gets his frown, like he hasn’t noticed that a house should be more than just a place to pass out. “You good to go from here?”
“What time will your parents be here?” I ask.
His expression goes blank. “Whenever they get here.” And then he walks out and shuts out the door behind him.
I study the walls around me.This is where I live now. I’ve traveled all over with my dad—flying private to various business meetings. Winters in Aspen, spring in Paris, summers wherever I could point on a map and tell him I wanted to go. But somehow, in all that traveling, I’ve never felt farther from home.
Two hours later, I’m unpacked, showered, re-made-up. When I look in the bathroom mirror, the person there looks almost like a professional baseball player’s wife. I have no idea what, if anything, Brayden has told his parents about me. “Hi, I’m Savannah, your new daughter-in-law!” I practice saying. “Surprise!”
I pull out my phone, type a text to Victoria.How do I survive meeting my fake husband’s very real parents?Erase that. Retype a message.
Me: How do I impress someone’s parents?
Victoria: Be smart and cultured and beautiful. So be yourself (kiss emoji). How’s Atlanta?
Me: It’s…
