By the time we roll through the gate and up the long gravel drive, her eyelids are drooping as she fights to stay awake. She almost looks innocent like this, lashes low, head leaning against the window. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was.
I shift the weight of Arden’s overstuffed duffel on my shoulder as I flip on the entry light, then lock the double doors behind us. Arden drifts down the wide hallway leading into the living area. Slowing down to study the abstract art lining the wall — thick, violent strokes of black across large white canvases. She lingers for a moment, considering them, before moving on.
She enters the living room with a muttered, “Nice museum you have here.” Still enough energy to be a smart-ass, I see.
“Make yourself at home,” I reply, sweeping a hand around the space. Then, all at once, it hits me. She’s right.
Looking around at the vast expanse of white and gray marble, the slate walls, the black steel accents… it feels cold. Sterile, even. The only touch of warmth comes from the yellow glow of overhead lights and sunlight that streams in during the day. I had never noticed before. Or maybe I just didn’t care.
“Come on. I’ll take your things. Your room is this way.” I jerk my head toward another hallway to our right.
Arden follows, but there’s a hitch in her step, a hesitation she can’t quite hide. As we move down the hall toward the guest suite, her gaze flicks from the art on the walls to the doorways we pass, cataloging details, locating exits. She’s always alert. Braced for what might come next. I wonder what etched that instinct into her. Maybe it’s just the reality that she’s alone in a stranger’s house, with a strange man shemet twenty-four hours ago, who also tracked her to her own home. We didn’t exactly start on the right foot. I can only hope that having a space of her own will convince her she can feel safe here.
At the end of the hall, I nod towards the door. Arden gently twists the handle and steps inside, her eyes widening as the room opens up around her.
A king bed enveloped in a white down duvet dominates the center. Across from it sits a sleek wooden dresser with a flat-screen perched on top. An arched entryway reveals a long marble countertop housing the sink and vanity, a large steam shower, and a separate soaking tub. It was all designed with ultimate luxury and comfort in mind.
She spins slowly, taking it in piece by piece, until her gaze snags on the real showstopper: floor-to-ceiling glass windows showcasing the backyard, the infinity pool stretching the length of the estate, and beyond that, the glittering sprawl of city lights below.
Arden doesn’t speak. Just drifts closer to the glass, staring out at the view like it’s pulling her in. Then her eyes snap back to mine, a brilliant spark cutting through the calm.
“Up for a night swim?”
Chapter 13
ARDEN
I don’t know why I thought a midnight swim with a near-stranger was a good idea. But this house, this view, the room… it all feels so surreal, like I’ve stepped into a dream. Yet somehow, for the moment, this is my actual life.
In that moment, standing in the guest suite, surrounded by sleek lines and luxury at a level I’ve only ever seen on TV, I decided I’m going to let myself have this. The travel. The job. Him. Whateverthisis. Because I know it won’t last.
I guess that decision is how I ended up here, floating in Locke’s massive infinity pool, suspended above all of Los Angeles. I glide toward the edge where the water appears to spill straight over the hillside; the lights stretching endlessly below, the ocean a black, unknowable line beyond them. The water feels warm against my skin despite the cool ocean breeze drifting around me.
For a moment, I close my eyes and pretend this is mine. All of it.
The view. The stillness. A life where I’m not always planning an exit.
Then Locke slips in. He doesn’t speak, just drifts closer and closer until he’s leaning against the edge, mirroring my stance. Just feet away. For a while we sit in silence, both of us staring into the night.
It’s the kind of silence that feels charged. Heavy, like the entire world around us is holding its breath. This always seems to happen around him. The feeling of the air getting thicker. The way my body forgets how to do simple things, like breathe.
I don’t look at him right away, but I don’t have to.
His presence presses against my skin, calm on the surface but humming underneath. Dangerous in a quiet way. The kind of danger you don’t see coming until it’s already too late.
“Is this what you expected?” he asks eventually. His voice is casual. As if we’re not half-naked in the dark. As if the memory of the night we shared isn’t still hanging between us.
I take a second too long to answer, willing my body to remember why I’m here.
“The pool?” I reply.
“The house,” he says. “Everything.”
When I decide to brave a glance, water is sliding down the hard planes of his chest, the black lines of his tattoos look sharpened and vivid beneath the surface. Intricate Celtic designs woven together over the length of his arms and torso. They’re precise and controlled, just like every other thing about him. My throat goes dry.
“I didn’t know what to expect,” I say, and it’s the truth. “I didn’t really expect to be here.”
His gaze doesn’t leave my face. Not to look at my body, or the view, or any of the countless distractions around us. Like he’s consciously refusing to look anywhere else.
