And there it is. A real smile. Good thing Talia’s not here to see it.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Lucy
The door swings open before I can knock.
Nash stands barefoot, wearing dark jeans and a soft, navy T-shirt that hugs his shoulders in a way that feels completely unfair. His hair is slightly damp, like he just showered. Casual. Unbothered.
I, on the other hand, am doing my best not to drop the overnight bag sliding down my crutch and betray the fact that I’m two seconds from fully spiraling.
“Hey,” I manage.
“Hey,” he echoes, stepping aside. “Welcome home.”
His house smells warm and clean. There’s music playing low—something instrumental and moody, piano with a hint of strings. I hobble in, trying not to feel self-conscious. He grabs my bag before I can protest and leads me down the hall.
“I gave everything a good dusting today,” he says, pushing open the door at the end of the hall. “There’s a dresser and a closet… Use what you need.”
The room is small but tidy. Neutral colors. A soft-looking bed with a navy quilt, white sheets, and a folded throw at the foot. There’s a diffuser puffing something calming into the air—lavender maybe—and a plush chair by the window. The blinds are half-open, letting the last of the evening light spill across the floor.
I don’t say anything right away because I can’t. Does this man’s generosity have no limits?
“Everything okay?” he asks from behind me. “Is the lavender too much? I thought it was too much.”
“Everything’s wonderful. This is just so much nicer than sleeping on Stella’s couch in the shoebox. I mean look! I have a door and everything.” I glance back at the bed and am assaulted by thoughts of Nash tossing me onto it, pulling his shirt over his head, climbing on top of me…
Woah.
Like…woah…
Where in the world did that come from?
I inwardly grab myself by the shoulders and give a firm shake. Nash is my doctor, my landlord, my… my benefactor. This relationship is complicated enough without me thinking things like that.
“It’s nicer than any place I’ve stayed in the last two years,” I say, turning back to him and physically shaking my head to refocus.
“That’s a low bar.”
“Out of work dancer in Los Angeles. I’m not sure there was a bar.”
His mouth curves. “Want the rest of the tour?”
Nash shows me the guest bathroom—gray tile, black fixtures, exactly one decorative plant. Then the kitchen. Stainless steel appliances. No clutter. A basket of bananas and a bowl of apples. One drawer suspiciously full of protein bars.
He opens the fridge, gesturing to the top shelf. “That’s yours. And the door if you need it. Don’t touch the cold brew unless you’re ready to commit to its consequences.”
I peer in. “Got it. Cold brew comes with consequences. Oh! That reminds me. I brought more cookies.”
He glances over, a strange look in his eyes. “If I make a joke about these, will you get all weird again?”
“Probably,” I say with a shrug.
“Good to know.” Nash closes the fridge then leans against the counter, opening the bag to sniff appreciatively. “You hungry?”
I nod. “Always.”
“I figured we’d keep it simple. Pasta okay?”
