“Talia.”
He doesn’t sound happy to see me.
“Hi,” I say, offering a small smile that feels wildly inappropriate given the circumstances.
He blinks, like he’s making sure I’m not a hallucination. “How did you get here?”
“I drove,” I answer weakly.
His jaw tightens. “That’s not what I meant.”
Yeah.
I know that.
The silence stretches between us.
He glances over my shoulder, like he expects a camera crew to leap out of the bushes at any second.
“You can’t just show up at my house.”
“I know where you live,” I say automatically.
Great.
Now I sound like a creepy stalker.
I clear my throat. “I mean—you gave me your address. For the lawyer. So technically…”
He rubs a hand down his face.
“Can I come in?” I ask more quietly.
He exhales long and hard, like he already regrets whatever decision he’s about to make.
But he steps aside.
I slip past him into the house.
And immediately forget how to breathe.
It’s even nicer inside.
High ceilings. Clean lines. Neutral tones that somehow feel warm instead of sterile. A massive gray sectional. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a backyard that looks professionally landscaped.
The air carries a faint citrus scent—clean, expensive.
I turn slowly, taking it all in. “Wow.”
A soft laugh slips out of me. “I’m impressed.”
He folds his arms across his chest.
Defensive.
Guarded.
“Why are you impressed?” he asks. “It’s a house.”
