Mabel smiles knowingly. “Mr. Blackwell doesn’t bring people home unless they matter.”
I glance sideways at Langston, but he’s already climbing out of the car, the faintest smirk playing at his lips.
Inside, the air smells like garlic, basil, and something rich simmering on the stove.
It feels… cozy. There’s color. Texture. Plants in the corners. A soft rug beneath my feet.
Not at all what I pictured when I thought of Langston’s home.
Between the food truck tacos and this house that feels like it could hold laughter, I’m starting to wonder if I know my husband at all.
Mabel leads us toward the kitchen, chatting as she stirs something on the stove. “Dinner’s almost done. Hope you like pasta, dear.”
I hum an affirmative, unable to stop smiling. “Love it.”
“Perfect,” she says, turning back to her pot. “Just a few more minutes.”
Langston steps closer, the heat of him brushing against my shoulder as he leans in. “You want a tour?” he murmurs, voice low enough for only me to hear.
I glance up, caught in that steady dark gaze that always manages to unravel me.
A slow smile tugs at my lips, and I nod. “Yeah,” I whisper. “I’d like that.”
The One Exception
Langston
Ithought I knew this house.
Every corner. Every inch.
But walking through it now with Sabrina beside me, I barely recognize the place.
Mabel’s been busy.
The cold, gray edges I used to favor are gone, replaced by warmth—soft lighting, woven textures, hints of color I wouldn’t have chosen myself but somehow work. There are vases of fresh flowers on the tables, a bowl of lemons on the counter, a faint scent of vanilla and something citrus in the air.
Even the theater room looks different.
Pillows. Blankets. A cozy throw draped over the back of the sofa.
I can’t decide whether to thank Mabel or fire her.
The only rooms untouched are my office, the master bedroom, and the bathroom—my usual no-go zones. The rest of the house feels… lived in.
And watching Sabrina take it in?
That does something to me I can’t explain.
She moves slowly, fingertips trailing along the edge of a sideboard, pausing to glance out a window or smile at something small—like the stack of books on the coffee table. She doesn’t say much, but her expression says enough.
I never cared what anyone thought of my home before. But now, I’m nervous.
Because it’s hers too, whether she realizes it yet or not.
When we finally reach the master bedroom, she stops in the doorway.
Her eyebrows lift.
