But that’s a problem for another day.
“Come on, big guy,” I say, needing to move before I start thinking too much.“Walk with me.See if everything’s set the way we wanted.”
We go room to room.
Hardwood floors.Tall ceilings.A living room with windows that frame the lake like it’s staged on purpose.A fireplace big enough to host a rebellion.A kitchen the size of our old apartment.
There’s a gym off the main hallway, exactly as requested.Machines already delivered and assembled, because I said the word “routine” and watched Monty’s shoulders drop half an inch like his body recognized the language of survival.
I wouldn’t be surprised if he lives in there to avoid the family.I hope I’m wrong.
Upstairs, the primary bedroom faces the lake—dark glass and slow ripples, a clean stretch of water framed by fir trees and distant lights that look like they’re floating.It’s quiet up there, tucked away from the rest of the house, like the world can’t reach it unless you invite it in.
Monty stops near the far wall and points.“There shouldn’t be cameras in the room.”
I glance to where he’s indicating—the camera mount near the corner.“It’s angled toward the exterior.It’s looking outside.”
His jaw tics.“I told the security guy that I didn’t want cameras in our room.I want privacy.”
“You’ll have it,” I say.And then—because I’m me, because restraint has never been my brand—I add, “Unless you ask nicely.Then Vesper can turn the camera around and catch me buried in her while you take me apart from behind.Front row seats to you filling her and wrecking my ass at the same time.Real cinema.”
His gaze slices to me.“You don’t record sex.”
Flat.Final.The words are low, fierce, like a boundary written on stone.
But his jaw’s tight.His breath too even.
And his eyes?
Yeah.Those eyes are on my mouth.
Before I can say something, he adds, “You want to trend on social media because someone found a sex tape of you with your girlfriend and the goalie on your team?”
“Is that what you want to be?”I try not to increase the volume of my voice, and fail.“Just the goalie?I thought we were working to?—”
“Then why act like I’m a notch in your bedpost?”he shoots back,
“You think I want that?”I snap, and I hate that my voice rises because there are movers downstairs and this house is full of cardboard and new beginnings and we’re about to turn it into another battleground.“Is that what you think I’m doing here?Collecting trophies?”
His eyes hold mine.Hard.Controlled.
And suddenly I’m not talking about cameras anymore.
I’m talking about the fact that I’m trying to build a life that includes him and he keeps guarding himself as if life is a trap.
“Is that what you want to be?”I push, quieter but worse.“Just a trophy?Just the goalie?Because I thought we were working to?—”
To be more.
To be us.
To be a family Vesper doesn’t have to beg for.
My hands curl at my sides because I want to pace and I don’t want to look like I’m losing it.I want to touch him and I want to shove him.I want to shake him until he admits what he’s afraid of.
Monty glances toward the hallway, toward the distant noise of movers, and his voice drops.
“We are not alone,” he says.“Once they’re done, we can finish this conversation.”
