“I’m gonna head home, Ma,” I say, turning to face my mother. “Astrid’s coming with me. We’re going to watch the match on my phone.”
Compassion splays across Ma’s face. “Are you sure that’s wise? It might upset you.”
Might?Is she insane? Of course, it’ll upset me! But I’m still watching it. “It’ll be fine.”
“Okay. You can give Astrid a tour of the house.”
“Sounds great.” Astrid gets to her feet, instantly gathering empty plates.
“Leave that, sweetie,” her mum says. “You have done more than enough today. Go have fun.”
“Keep your bedroom door open, Callan,” Ma hollers as Astrid and I walk off, and I about die of embarrassment. For fuck’s sake, what the hell does she think I’m going to do? She knows I’m not interested in girlfriends, and surely, she’s seen enough of Astrid today to know she’s not the kind of girl you fool around with and discard. Her warning is unnecessary and humiliating. I’m seventeen, basically an adult, and it did not need to be said.
“Oh my gawd,” Astrid whispers.
“Yep, welcome to my life.”
Our little sisters tease us as we walk side by side, and our parents’ laughter trails us off the deck and into the house.
“Let me grab a cardigan,” Astrid says when we reach the bottom of the stairs.
“Can I come up?”
“Ummm, sure.”
I follow her up the stairs, trying and failing not to ogle her ass and those gorgeous legs. I think Thor was serious when he said she’s left a trail of broken hearts all over town. I can totally see why. She’s stunning, sweet, smart, and ambitious. Exactly the kind of girl I’d go after if I was in my mid-twenties, established in my career, and ready to settle down. Ma has been getting onmy case about girlfriends lately. She thinks I’m too serious about everything, and I need to have more fun. She doesn’t realize I’ve had plenty of fun with girls who are not, and will never be, my girlfriend.
I will only have one girlfriend in my life—the woman I’m going to marry.
Until I reach that point, casual flings are my thing. I’m not lacking for female company if I want it, and I see nothing about Ryemont that leads me to believe anything will change on that front now I’m in America.
“This is me.” Astrid opens a white door to a decent-sized bedroom. It’s neat and exquisitely furnished.
“You designed this?” I lean against the door frame as she stands awkwardly at the end of a large bed with a cream-colored headboard. The bed covers are white, but she has a ton of pillows in gold, beige, and pink on top of it, along with a soft pink quilt folded in half over the bed.
“Yeah. I upgraded my room two years ago. Did all the work myself, and I even made the quilt.”
“You’re very talented. It’s a beautiful room,” I add, stepping inside and roaming around her personal space. You can tell a lot about a person by their room. I’m not surprised Astrid’s bedroom is inviting, stylish, neat, and indicative of her interests and personality.
Inspirational quotes hang in gold frames over her bed. A large potted plant is tucked into one corner alongside a desk and chair with a laptop and a neat stack of books on top. I wander over to examine the pile of printed sheets housed on top of the books. “You do technical drawing?” My eyes lift to meet hers.
“I’m taking an online class in technical drawing for interior design. It’s part of the degree curriculum, but I want to get ahead.”
“This is your passion,” I add, flipping through the drawings.
“Interior design is my football,” she quips.
“Think you mean soccer.” My lips curl at the corners.
“Thor would definitely be impressed.” She worries her lower lip between her teeth. “Look around. I’ll just grab a cardigan from the closet.” She disappears through one of the two doors inside the room, and I investigate the rest of her space.
On the far side is a bookcase that has been built around the two wide windows that look out over the view of the back garden and the woodland at the rear. Window seats are built into the ledges, and it looks like a cozy place to read. Her library is a mix of schoolbooks, romance and fantasy books, autobiographies, and sewing, design, and architectural guides.
I poke my head inside the other door, instantly envious of her small en suite shower room. “Dad hired a contractor to add the en suite,” she explains, appearing over my shoulder. “Thank God because sharing a bathroom with my two sisters was getting real old.”
“I’m jealous,” I admit, turning to face her. She’s holding a cream cardigan in one hand and her phone in the other. “I’m sharing a hideous green bathroom with my sister that I swear hasn’t been redecorated since the seventies.”
She giggles, and I could listen to that sound every day for the rest of my life.
