“Get some rest, Mom,” Topher said softly, his voice full of warmth.
As we straightened up, I noticed that our hands were still loosely linked. But as we pulled back, our fingers slipped apart. It was strange, the absence of his touch.
The drive back to the house was quiet. There was no bickering, no snarky remarks. By the time we got inside, the night had settled into calm silence, the kind that makes you want to curl up and drift off.
Topher tossed his keys on the counter, turning to me. “I’ve got a lot of work to catch up on. I’ll take the couch tonight,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “You take the bedroom.”
We moved around the house, checking all the deadbolts and making sure the curtains were drawn tight. The last thing we needed was for Gladys, the nosiest neighbor on the planet, to spot anything suspicious. With all that done, Topher settled onto the couch, and I headed for the bedroom.
I slipped under the covers. With his mom coming home tomorrow, we’d be stuck in her guest room together, pretending to be a happy couple.Sleeping in the same room.
8
The next morningstarted exactly how you’d expect when you’re forced to live in a tiny house with a billionaire: with a stranger flown in from New York to fix the Wi-Fi.
I stood there, rubbing my eyes, clutching my coffee like it was the only thing keeping me sane. I watched as the tech guy—who looked like he should be in a corporate boardroom, not crouched under a router in Topher’s mom’s tiny house—poked around like he was performing brain surgery. All because Topher had declared the Wi-Fi situation “unacceptable.”
Topher paced behind him, arms crossed. “It’s unstable. I can’t run encrypted calls or high-bandwidth data transfers on a connection that drops to hamster-wheel speeds whenever someone microwaves oatmeal.”
The tech nodded gravely, as if this were a universally accepted tragedy.
According to Topher, the home network was “nonviable for confidential work.”
According to Josephine, he needed to go outside and touch grass.
According to me, I needed stronger coffee.
Meanwhile, Topher was perched at his elaborate computer workstation, surrounded by four monitors, each one displaying some graph or market trend. It was like the command center for a space mission. Only it was tucked into his mom’s cramped living room.
“I don’t know why you didn’t just call the local internet company,” I finally said, my patience wearing thin.
He didn’t even glance my way. “They don’t understand the complexity of my system. This guy built the network for my offices.”
I sighed, taking another sip of coffee, already beyond done with this day. But, naturally, it didn’t stop there.
Next came Topher’s personal chef. Heaven forbid Topher would be required to make his own breakfast. And it wasn’t just any breakfast. Oh no. It had to be some gluten-free, dairy-free, fun-free concoction that required more ingredients than a five-course dinner. The chef took over the tiny kitchen, and I had to duck around him to refill my coffee.
And then there was the personal trainer. Yep, Topher had him bring along a rowing machine. I watched, dumbfounded, as the trainer awkwardly tried to wedge the thing through the front door.
As soon as the rowing machine was in place in the already-cramped living room, Topher jumped aboard. He rowed like a man possessed, while barking questions at his technology guy about backup routers and why hisstate-of-the-artWi-Fi system had dared to fail him. The trainer, standing there like a statue of calm, adjusted Topher’s form, as if this were normal behavior.
As if that wasn’t enough, Topher’s gardener was carrying boxes of holiday decorations backintothe house. The very same boxes he’d spent hours clearing out of the guest bedroom. The poor gardener was stacking them along the bedroom walls, all perfectly labeled and organized. At the same time, I mentally calculated how many feet of space we’d have left to sleep in. Spoiler alert: not many.
If I stayed in that house a second longer, surrounded by Topher’s tech crisis and workout obsession, I was going to snap.
“I’m going for a walk,” I announced, though I didn’t think anyone was listening.
The second I stepped outside, however, I regretted it. There, standing right on the front lawn like she’d been waiting for me, stood Ms. Nosy herself, Gladys, in all her floral tracksuit glory.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the early bird!” Gladys chirped, her eyes twinkling with nosiness. She winked as if we were both in on some shared secret. “Out for a stroll?”
I plastered on a smile. “Just needed some air.”
“Oh, I don’t blame you, sweetie.” Gladys nodded like she had cracked the code. “Oh, and by the way, I noticed your curtains were drawn last night.Smart move.You never know who’s watching. Some people around here have no respect for privacy.”
I blinked, trying not to laugh or cry. “Right, well, I should keep walking.”
“Good idea, dear!” she called after me, probably already plotting her next surveillance operation. “Get those steps in!”
