“Nice to meet you, Charlotte.” Cora smiles.
“Call me Lottie. It’s so good to have you both here.”
“Mr. Stone.” Our butler appears. “We will bring your luggage to your old room. Will your company be staying with you?”
“This is my wife, Cora, and yes, we’ll be staying together.”
“Are you hungry, thirsty?” Lottie pulls at my hand. “Let’s get you some snacks.”
“Give us a minute.” I shake off my enthusiastic sister and turn to Cora.
Her eyes dart around the cavernous space, and then she watches our suitcases being carried up the stairs by our staff.
I wish I could hear her thoughts. I grew up in this house; it’s familiar and, well, my childhood home. But just this entry hall is three times the size of Cora’s entire apartment.
I’ve been complaining daily about the tiny shower, tiny kitchen, and the general modesty of her space. But two minutes back home and I realize how her place is intimate, warm, and has grown to be my home without me realizing.
Or perhaps it’s because she’s there. Her scent inthe air. Her signature on all things. Her personality in every corner. She feels like home.
“Are you hungry?” I wrap my arm around her waist.
She doesn’t respond—just stares at our disappearing luggage.
“Cora?”
“You have servants?” she whispers.
“I don’t think that’s what they are called. They’re our household staff.”
“I need a minute.” She looks at me, blinking.
“Where are you, guys?” Lottie calls from somewhere in the direction of the dining room.
“Let’s go to my room first.” I practically shield Cora with my body, like I can protect her from this house, its people, its burden.
“I knew you’re rich, but this is… I’m sorry…I’m shocked. Let’s join Lottie. I don’t want her to think I’m not grateful for her hospitality. Because I am grateful. She seems really nice and normal. She hugged—”
I fuse my lips with hers. “I’ve never heard you babble.”
“I’ve never been hit on the head with so much decadence. And… Jesus, I made you stay at my place.” She jerks her head back and stares at me, but her initial panic is gone, a latent smile quirking up her lips. “And you stayed.”
“And I stayed.”
I stayed in her shoebox of an apartment because she is there. I would live under a bridge if she were by my side.
We grin at each other for a moment, and the L word is on my tongue.
“Lex, Cora, come on.” Lottie’s voice snaps us from the moment of unspoken words, but something tells me we don’t need to say them.
We feel them.
Deep. Painful. Exhilarating.
Lottie laughs as she sets down her teacup, her eyes dancing with mischief. “So there we are, this seven-foot-tall Swedish financier next to me, politely nibbling on a macaroon like it’s radioactive, and I ask him, ‘How do you feel about hedgehogs?’”
Cora laughs, a little hesitantly at first, then more fully. She’s seated on the velvet settee beside Lottie, a teacup balanced in her hands. Her legs are crossed, her expression relaxed for the first time since we arrived.
Her laugh is everything. It rings delicate, but grounded. Like her.
