“That sounds like a question designed to get lied to.”
“That sounds like a yes.”
I grin. “You ask a lot of questions for somebody who didn’t want help this morning.”
“And yet here I am, standing in a beachfront Alpha compound.”
“Home,” I correct.
“Suspiciously nice home.”
I step up beside her, not too close, just enough to look out at the beach with her. She’s got her hands on her hips, and the ocean behind the glass is throwing light across her skin. I swear to God she looks like she belongs in this house more than half the furniture does.
I clear my throat. “Tourists don’t come this far down. It stays quiet.”
“That explains the Bond-villain gates.”
I can’t stop chuckling.
Then her attention shifts to the kitchen, and her whole face changes.
The big island bench, hanging lights, open shelving, and industrial range. Ace’s coffee setup that looks like it belongs in a laboratory.
She points. “That is an absurd amount of bench space.”
“Yeah. It’s amazing to cook on.”
She walks into the kitchen slowly, glancing around. “This is ridiculously beautiful.”
“You hate it, don’t you?” I tease.
She stares back over her shoulder, green eyes bright. “This kitchen is everyone’s dream.”
The worst part is standing here with her scent in the air and my body reacting like a damn traitor, and all I can think is that we’re in so much trouble with her moving in.
She drifts farther into the kitchen, fingertips sliding along the dark stone island as she goes. It’s big enough to easily sit six, stools tucked along one side. Her gaze lifts to the copper pots hanging overhead, then tracks to the range.
She stops. “Six burners?” she says, turning to me. “Who are you people cooking for in here, entire villages?”
I lean against the counter and watch her take it all in, grinning. “We love to cook up a storm.” The built-in appliances, the shelves at the back stacked with jars and oils and spices, the walk-in pantry.
“So you do cook,” she says, still eyeing the kitchen.
I lean a shoulder against the doorway. “We all do.”
She drags her hand along the edge of the island. “No, I mean properly cook.”
I grin. “Is there another kind?”
“Show me the rest,” she says.
“Right this way.” The hallway runs long through the house, sun spilling in from the back rooms. I push open the first door.
North’s room.
She leans in, takes one look at the perfectly made bed, the dark, clean lines, the complete lack of anything unnecessary, and lifts her brows.
I fold my arms. “Say it.”
