Smooth. Very smooth.
He steps over the threshold, and the tiny entryway shrinks around his size. The house is small but cute—cozy, I tell myself when the mortgage is due—and he fills it like he was built for bigger spaces. He smells of soap and something woodsy, fresh air and a hint of motor oil.
My thighs clench.
Get it together.
"Can I, uh"—I gesture vaguely at the duffel—"help?"
His left brow lifts, as if the idea of me carrying any part of his luggage is amusing. "Got it." He slings the bag higher on his shoulder. The muscles in his arm flex. I stare. Again.
Stop. Staring.
"Right, okay." I clear my throat and gesture down the short hallway. "So, this is the house. Obviously." I want to smack myself. "Um, living room, kitchen's through there, bathroom and bedrooms down the hall. You'll be on the left."
He follows me down the hall, his footsteps heavy but somehow quiet, controlled. Military, he'd said. Fourteen years, I remember from his profile. I'd read it three times, tension coiled under my skin, weighing pros and cons.
Pro: stable job lined up with Thompson Construction. Pro: permanent move, minimum three months. Pro: clean, quiet, allegedly no drama.
Con: man. Large man. Larger-than-expected man. Man, whose arms could throw me over his shoulder and—
Nope. Not finishing that thought.
"This is your room," I say, pushing the door open with my foot.
I'd spent all morning making it look nice, because apparently anxiety combined with poverty turns me into Martha Stewart. The full-sized bed has fresh navy sheets and a soft gray comforter. The curtains are open to let in the afternoon light. A small dresser sits against one wall, and a simple desk and chair sit against the other. I put a small plant on the windowsill before worrying he'd kill it and then deciding the plant would have to take one for the financial team.
On the bed, there's a woven basket I found on clearance. Inside: a printed copy of the house rules, a set of keys on a tiny cactus keychain, a mug that says "Roommates, Not Soulmates," some travel-size toiletries, and a bag of locally roasted coffee.
His eyes flick over the space, taking it in. They land on the basket, pause on the rule sheet peeking out, then move on. He doesn't smile, but his expression softens. Just a little.
"This okay?" I ask, hovering in the doorway with my arms crossed to keep from fidgeting. "The room. I know it's not huge, but it's—"
"It's good," he says. "More than good. Thanks."
The word thanks does something weird in my chest. He looks at me when he says it, steady and direct, and for the first time since I opened the door, I catch something like weariness in his eyes. Not weakness, just an edge of bone-deep tired that feels…familiar.
"Great," I say, forcing my smile to stay in the friendly category and not wander into flirtatiousness. "Well, um, the bathroom is at the end of the hall. We share it, obviously. I'm usually working late and sleep in, so morning shower times are all yours. I…I wrote out a little schedule suggestion, but it's flexible."
"A schedule." One brow lifts.
Mortification pricks my skin. "Not like a chore chart or anything. Just—guidelines. I work evenings at The Lucky Tap, the new bar on Main. So I'm leaving in about an hour, and I won't be back until late, and I didn't want you to worry or think I got kidnapped or something if the house is dark. Not that you'd worry. I mean, we just met. You have no reason to worry about me at all."
Kill me.
I laugh, high and breathy, and want to slam my head into the doorframe.
His mouth does that almost-smile again. "You always talk this fast?"
"Yes." I blow out a breath. "No. Only when I'm nervous, which I'm not, obviously, because this is totally fine and normal. Renting a room to a stranger so I don't default on my mortgage because my ex–best friend robbed me blind. Completely fine. Totally normal."
Wow. Okay. Guess we're just…saying it out loud now.
His jaw tightens at the word robbed. Those gray eyes sharpen. "She stole from you?"
I wave a hand, wishing I could cram the words back into my mouth. "It's not—well, yes. Technically. She was my roommate before, and my best friend since high school, and we had this joint savings account for a trip and all the house expenses, then one day she just…emptied it and left town." My throat burns. "Anyway. That's not your problem. You passed the background check, and you have a job; that's what matters."
His fingers curl around the strap of his duffel. "She take a lot?"
