Beyond the living room, big windows lined the back wall. Through them, I caught a glimpse of the pine forest hugging the edge of his property, dark green against the winter sky. There was a narrow break between the trees—a sandy, worn path I would’ve bet money led straight to the dunes and down to the beach.
Of course his house backed up to a postcard.
My brain, ever the opportunist, immediately slapped a wedding over the top of the scene—white chairs lining the path, twinkle lights strung through the branches, a small wooden archat the tree line, Lake Michigan glittering in the distance. I could practically see the caption: Evergreen Dunes Elopement.
“Your house is ...” I searched for the right word and landed somewhere betweenArchitectural Digestandsad bachelor den. “Beautiful,” I settled on, because it was. Even under the mess.
Wes made a low sound that might have been a scoff. “It’s just a house.”
I took in the custom trim, the way the kitchen island was perfectly proportioned to the room, the little reading nook tucked under a window with built-in drawers beneath. This wasn’t just a house. This was someone’s dream. His dream.
I whispered under my breath, “No, it’s definitely not.”
You didn’t get details like that by accident.
I could see him in every choice—practical and solid, but with these flashes of softness he probably didn’t even realize he had. The deep farmhouse sink. The way the outlets were perfectly placed, like he’d thought through how a person would actually live here. The warm pendant lights over the island that made even the stacks of mail and abandoned coffee mugs look almost intentional.
It was gorgeous craftsmanship at war with clutter and neglect.
Kind of like the man standing in the middle of it, pretending not to notice.
As I dragged my suitcases farther in, I started to see the places where the house didn’t quite match the man living in it anymore.
There was a small lip where the tile met the hardwood leading into the hallway—nothing I would’ve clocked before, but suddenly it looked like a trip wire. The hallway in the back was narrow.
And the couch . . .sheesh.
The couch was clearly command central. Blankets piled at one end, a dent in the cushions exactly where his body would fit. The coffee table was a graveyard of take-out containers, pill bottles, and half-tangled charging cords. Everything he might need was within arm’s reach, like he’d built himself a little bunker and never bothered to come out.
This house was clearly designed for the old Wes—the one who could sprint up and down stairs and haul lumber without thinking. The space hadn’t gotten the memo that everything had changed.
A sharp, surprising thread of protectiveness tugged in my chest. I’d never looked at a man’s house and thought,Okay, how do we make this less of an obstacle course for his life?
But I was thinking it now.
“Upstairs,” Wes said, breaking into my thoughts. He nodded toward the staircase at the back of the house and reached for the handle of the nearest suitcase.
He stopped at the base of the stairs, and something like fear swept across his face. It was gone almost as quickly as it came, replaced by that familiar, closed-off blankness.
Before I could offer to help, his hand wrapped around the suitcase handle. With his other, he gripped the banister and started up. The movement wasn’t smooth—it took effort, deliberate and careful—but he did it. One step, then another.
My heart lodged somewhere in my throat.
I hovered a few feet behind him with the other two suitcases, every instinct screaming at me to stay close in case he slipped, but not so close that I turned into another person smothering him. Hayes’s voice echoed in my head—He doesn’t want my help—and I forced myself to let Wes set the pace.
By the time we reached the top, I was panting and sweaty, my arms burning from hauling my wardrobe and emotional baggageup his stairs. Wes adjusted his stance like the climb had cost him more than he wanted me to see.
“There are three empty bedrooms,” he said, nodding down the short hallway. “You can take your pick.” His chin jerked toward the first open door. “This one is mine, but the rest are free.”
I peeked past his shoulder into the primary bedroom.
It was beautiful. A king-size bed centered against the far wall, flanked by matching nightstands. A big window with that same view of the pines and a sliver of sand path. An en suite bathroom beyond an open doorway, all sleek tile and glass.
And absolutely no sign that anyone actually lived there.
The bedspread was smooth and unwrinkled, the pillows perfectly fluffed. No kicked-off jeans on the floor, no boots by the door, no half-empty glass of water sweating on the nightstand.
Nothing.
