The yard stretches huge, framed by rolling hills and oldtrees whose branches sway lazily in the breeze, their leaves whispering overhead. A stone fire pit anchors the center, ringed with worn Adirondack chairs that still smell faintly of smoke from last weekend.
Above, string lights are draped from thick cedar beams, their bulbs catching the last glow of daylight, ready to spill a soft, golden haze once night falls. The air carries the clean bite of wood and earth, and beyond the fence, the crickets and cicadas keep time like background music.
There’s enough space here for anything; a rowdy team barbecue, a small wedding, and what I really dream of is a couple of wild kids,my kids, tearing across the grass with bare feet and sticky fingers.
She pauses at the threshold, gazing out at the open land without a word.
The sun’s setting, illuminating the edges of her black hair with a subtle red undertone. The glow makes her appear untouchable, and I can’t look away. Strands move in the breeze, catching fire in the fading rays, and I’m in fucking awe at how something as simple as her silhouette can take my breath away.
I swallow the lump in my throat and motion upstairs.
“One more stop.”
We climb the stairs in silence. I watch the swing of her hips and try not to think about her in my bed.
At the top of the hallway, I stop in front of the last door and push it open.
“This is it.”
The primary suite.
A massive king bed dominates the room, layered in linen bedding that’s rumpled just enough to look lived-in, the iron headboard casting faint shadows against the wall inthe low firelight. The fireplace glows on the far side, flames flickering, their warmth seeping into the cool evening air.
French doors are open to a balcony, where a quiet night settles in— the rustling wind through the hills, the faint hum of cicadas, and the cooling scent of grass drifting up from below.
She steps inside, still quiet and unreadable.
I crane my neck to the right as I watch her find the bathroom, her hand passing over the smooth metal handle before she slides the door open. The gentle slide along the track reveals a space that glows beneath recessed lighting—marble tile, cool and shiny, reflecting the light like water.
A soaking tub sits in the corner, big enough for two. The faint scent of eucalyptus drifting out.
Amelia turns back around and stares at the king bed with a furrowed brow.
“Tell me you’re joking,” she says, voice flat. “There’s only one bed?”
I scratch the back of my neck, trying to look innocent, though the corner of my mouth betrays me with a crooked grin. “Couch is downstairs,” I say, jerking my thumb vaguely over my shoulder, “but the bed’s big.” I shift my weight against the doorframe, watching her with mock seriousness. “You can sleep at the very edge and pretend I’m not devastatingly attractive.”
“Why is there only one bedroom in this massive farmhouse?” she snaps, crossing her arms tight over her chest. Her hip juts to the side as she levels me with a glare, one brow arched.
I grin. “I didn’t think I’d need a guest room. Women don’t usually stay after they got what they wanted.”
“I’m not sleeping on a bed where you had sex withcountless whores, and there’s no way in fuck I’m sleeping on the couch.”
“It’s actually memory foam.”
She levels me with a look. “Then you sleep on it.”
I blink. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
I gesture vaguely at myself. “Back problems, athletic strain. I’m delicate.”
“Delicate?” she repeats.
“Fine. Sensitive.”
She rolls her eyes. “So I’m the one who gets scoliosis while you’re up here starfishing on your rich-boy mattress?”
