“Navy.”
“Whatever.”
His mouth twitches, almost forming a smile. I’ll take it.
Tex heads toward the porch, and I follow, as if I’ve accepted this is my life now: trailing a hot cowboy into the woods after being “sold” at an auction like it’s 1870.
The porch steps creak beneath our boots as Tex unlocks the door, and a wave of warmth rushes out, as if someone has just opened an oven.
The first thing I notice before the furniture and the layout is the light. It’s warm and golden, not a fluorescent bulb in sight. Something in my chest unclenches.
I step inside. It’s not fancy, but it’s warm and inviting. A thick woven rug cushions my boots, and a fire crackles in a stone hearth, with a leather sofa facing it. A rocking chair sits in the corner, and books are neatly arranged by height on a shelf.
Everything has its place.
Everything looks well-cared for.
No clutter. No chaos. No overflowing junk drawer filled with batteries, rubber bands, and items without homes.
I catch my reflection in a mirror by the door, my hair wild, mascara slightly smudged, scuffed boots, and suddenly I realize: I am the junk drawer. I am the chaos interrupting his carefully ordered life.
I become acutely aware of how much of my life has been duct-taped together.
Tex shrugs off his coat and hangs it on a hook. His hat goes on another hook, brim facing out. He places his boots by the door, toes perfectly aligned. His keys go on a small tray, and he adjusts them so the teeth all face the same direction.
I brace myself for the familiar irritation, the feeling of being judged by someone else’s standards, but it doesn’t come.
“You can laugh,” he says without turning around.
“At what?”
“The keys.” He glances at me over his shoulder. “Everyone laughs at the keys.”
“I wasn’t going to laugh.”
“You were thinking about it.”
“Maybe.” I shrug. “But I get it. The order. Having things where they belong.”
Something shifts in his expression. “Most people don’t.”
“I’m not most people,” I reply, echoing his words from the truck.
The corner of his mouth lifts.
He sets my bag down near the entryway. “Bathroom’s through there.” He nods toward a hallway. “Two bedrooms. Yours is on the right.”
Two bedrooms.
Relief flickers. As brave as I try to be, the thought of sharing a room with him right now makes my nerves skitter.
“My own room?” I ask. “Are you sure you can spare the space?”
“This works better if we both have room to breathe.”
His words resonate differently than he probably intended. Room to breathe. When was the last time anyone offered me that?
He meets my gaze. “The contract says temporary cohabitation. It doesn’t specify that you have to sleep in my bed.”
