I’m glad I stepped out of the wedding shoes, the ones that should be advertised as torture mechanisms, before I left. Although it seems like the damage is already done, because not even my broken-in Converses can take away the pain of the fresh blisters on my pinky toes as they brush against the inside of my shoe.
I should be used to it by now.
Uncomfortable shoes, clothes, and the company I keep.
Kept.
Life with Damien meant a life of being scrutinized from head to toe, even when I wasn’t standing in the same room as him. As if I were a walking billboard, representing the future of New York politics, and the campaign hinged on whether or not I was wearing shoes half a size too small and clothes better suited for someone with a deep love of buttoned-up tweed suit jackets.
I clutch my phone. I should turn it on. Surely Damien must have reached out by now. I don’t know what exactly I plan on saying to him, but something, anything is better than leaving your fiancé at the altar in front of hundreds of guests and breaking up with him with a note written in lipstick on a mirror.
I hiss when I place my foot on the first step. These damn blisters are going to be a bitch for the next few days. I mentally tell myself to soften my footfall on the next step but never get the chance to.
One moment I’m wincing at the impending pain, and the next I’m being lifted up and carried the rest of the way in Luke’s arms.
Correction, arm. Because he managed to swoop down and carry me with his right arm while his left still balanced our luggage.
I squeal in surprise, instinctively wrapping my arms around his neck, afraid I’m going to fall. “You know, you could warn a girl next time you’re planning on sweeping her off her feet.” I huff.
His lip twitches. “Oh yeah?” He glances down at me, then shrugs. “Guess I’ll have to give you a two-second warning next time.”
My jaw drops. Luke and I have always had an easy-going friendship. And while I’ve noticed that his jokes and smiles are hardly shared with anyone else around us, flirty banter is something we’ve never dabbled in, for obvious reasons.
It’s mostly me making terrible jokes and him not throwing me out of his office like he does everyone else. Even when I not so slyly steal the fries off his plate after saying I don’t want to order any.
I continue to stare in mild shock as his face returns to its usual stoic features. “Your feet hurt” is all he says, as if that is reason enough to short-circuit my brain on a day like this.
He barely has to shift me as he enters a code over a small scanner and unlocks the front door.
Thoughts of being cradled in Luke’s arm take a back seat when I realize what we must look like.
I stiffen in his arm as he steps over the threshold, and his body instantly goes on alert. “What’s wrong?”
I curse the man for being so goddamn perceptive. Can he not allow me to have one mini mental breakdown without noticing?
I shake my head and aim for levity. “Oh, you know. Me in a big white dress. You in a suit. Carrying the bride into the house. At least I can say I kept one tradition alive tonight, right?”
I swear he stops breathing, his eyes widening as the penny drops for him. “Daisy, I-I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have… I didn’t mean…”
I chuckle nervously. “While it’s been mighty fun getting carried around and giving my battered feet a break, I think it’s safe to put me down now. Um, how about a tour?” I pat his chest and instantly regret it. The man is built like a brick house and the last thing he needs is sad little Daisy pawing over him at the end of a long and exhausting day.
He quickly lowers me to the ground, not releasing his hold until I’ve lifted the hem of my dress out of my walking path.
He clears his throat. “Yeah. A tour. Sure. Uh, well. This is it.” His hand gestures around us to the vast open floor plan that lets me see almost every inch of the home from where we stand. “It’s spacious, but I built it like a studio, so there are no interior doors except the ones leading to the bathroom and closets. It’s, uh, I built it with only me in mind. I have a place in the city that has room for more guests. And more… doors.”
I look over my shoulder as Luke shifts his weight from foot to foot. Why does he seem shy about showing me his place? Yes, it is definitely not meant for entertaining a crowd, but it’s beautiful. And so very Luke.
“No doors. Got it. That means I can snoop more easily.” I smirk in his direction as I take in the place.
The walls are made up of smooth logs like the ones I used to see in picture books when I was a child, making me feel like we’re in an adult version of a tree house. The kitchen is to our left. A small butcher block island stands in the middle of the space that houses beautiful dark green cabinets above andaround a gas stove. It’s tidy and no nonsense, like the man who must cook all his hearty meals in it.
To my right is a living room, with a plush brown couch that looks divine for mid-afternoon naps and movie nights.
And in front of us is a set of floor-to-ceiling windows and a sliding door that is currently giving us an unobstructed view of a lake and the moon shining in its reflection.
But my attention is drawn elsewhere.
To the one and only bed with views of the moonlit water.
