It physically pains me to look at her.
I’m about to drink her in and engrain her perfect features into my brain when she shoots me a glare.
“Can you not stare at me, and show me around the house so I know where the fuck I’m staying.”
I dramatically scoff, nodding at her.
“Okay, dollface.”
She rolls her eyes, picking at her cuticles.
I gesture loosely toward the open space. “This is the living room,” I say, forcing my voice to stay casual. My hand skims the back of the couch as I move past it. “Big couch. Bigger TV.” I hook a thumb toward the hearth, a wry smile tugging at my mouth. “Fireplace’s real wood, I chop it myself.”
She glances over her shoulder, unimpressed. “To feel manly?”
I smirk, flexing my arms. “I’m a whole lot of man, baby.”
She purses her lips, trailing her eyes until they land on my football-shaped slippers. “Yeah, sureeee.”
“You’re just jealous because you don’t have a pair.”
Her mouth twitches, but she keeps moving past the massive sectional, the record player in the corner, and the stack of untouched books on the coffee table that I bought solely to look interesting.
I follow her, my slippers scuffing against the hardwood, watching the way she moves through my space like she already belongs here. Her fingertips graze the edge of the mantle, her gaze lingering on every detail I never thought twice about.
We head into the kitchen, and I try not to hover over her.
She runs a finger along the edge of the white quartz counters as if she’s checking for dust, then lifts it to inspect the tip with a faint smirk before brushing her hand casually against her jeans.
“This kitchen screams ‘I want a wife,’” she says flatly.
“I do,” I say with a shrug, leaning my hip against the counter. “One who can cook with me.” I flash her a crooked grin, lifting my brows.“I’ll also do the dishes and look hot.”
“You’ll do the dishes?” she repeats.
“Shirtless,” I add.
She rolls her eyes so hard I almost die on the spot.
“C’mon.” I nudge her toward the hallway. “Still more to see.”
We pass the guest bathroom, Irish spring scent drifting out as we walk by, and a coat closet with the faint creak of hinges when I brush against it. I reach the wide set of barn doors and shove them open with unnecessary flair, the iron handles cool beneath my palms, and the wooden panels groan as they swing wide on their tracks.
“This is the gym,” I announce, unable to stop myself. I sweep my hand toward the space, then rest it on the doorframe as she walks inside. “Built-in mirror walls. Real weights.” I hook a thumb at the treadmill, my mouth curling into a dry half-smile. “The treadmill’s mostly for trauma recovery and running from my feelings.”
She walks in, eyes scanning the squat rack, the punching bag, and the row of resistance bands I don’t even know how to use.
“Jesus,” she mutters. “Overcompensating much?”
“I have a lot of issues.”
She scoffs, turning on her heel.
I follow her to the French doors, the soft click of her footsteps guiding me along, and curl my hand around the cool brass handle. When I push them open, the hinges sigh, and a rush of fresh air spills inside.
“This is the backyard.”
It’s exactly what I wanted it to be.
