I knock on Birdie’s door the evening of our date. Which is a fake date, because this is a fake relationship, even though I’m nervous as hell after that kiss. Damn. That kiss was everything. There wasn’t anything fake about that kiss.
Silvie opens the door and pauses, a grin telling me she’s been informed of the plan.
“So,” she says. “Apparently, I’m moving in with you.”
I laugh, slightly caught off guard. “Yeah, Wilby has a way of making things happen when he wants to.”
“I’ve never moved in with someone on the first date,” she adds. “Feels bold.”
“I’ve never lived with a woman other than my mother, so there’s that,” I say with a small chuckle. “It’ll be a first for me.”
Her humor morphs into concern. “Are you sure you’re okay with this, Cal?” she says, searching my face.
There’s a lot I’m not okay with about this—galas and her mom and New York—but what I am okay with is her. If that stuff comes along with it, so be it. As long as she benefits in the end, it’ll be worth all the headache.
Silvie deserves good things and I want to help deliver them to her.
“Yeah,” I say with a smile. “Of course, happy to help. Plus, we’re not that far away. Still close to Birdie and now Wilby. Makes sense.”
She studies my face for a second and says, “Okay, let me get my things.”
After we grab all her things, which isn’t much, we head to my place. She steps in slowly, taking it all in. It’s not much different from Birdie’s house, just not as cozy. Silvie sweeps her gaze over the worn but comfy couch. The way everything has a place. She runs her fingers along the back of a chair and glances out the window at the darkening sky. A storm’s coming in.
“This place feels like you,” she says.
“Is that good or bad?” I ask.
I’m shocked at how much her approval means to me.
“It’s comfortable,” she says. “Like you know who you are, and it fits your vibe. Solid, steady, sturdy, and home.”
Interesting.
“I only have one bed. I’ll be taking the couch,” I inform her.
She frowns and looks at me like she doesn’t like that plan.
I show her the guest room with wall-to-wall bookshelves and my desk in the center. She examines all of my books, running her fingertips over the spines, reading the titles.
She stops short when she sees the framed photos on the wall of me in high school and during college. Surf shots. When I was a lot younger, leaner and had longer hair. A few newspaper clippings are tucked into the frame corners, headlines faded but still readable.
She turns slowly and grins. “Well, it turns out you do have a few secrets.”
I lean against the door frame, arms crossed. “Not really. I surfed and did some competitions to pay for school.”
She points at one photo. “You look... intense.”
“I was,” I say. “I needed that prize money. I surfed pretty hard for several years.”
“I didn’t realize you competed,” she says, stepping closer. “Like seriously competed.”
I shrug a shoulder. “It was a long time ago.”
“Cal,” she says, reading one of the clippings. “Regional finals, sponsorship offers.” Her eyes flick back to me. “You were a big deal.”
I hesitate. “Didn’t know it mattered.”
She studies my face, hers softer now. “Of course it’s a big deal. I want to know everything about you.”
