She stared at him blankly. “To your house?”
A ripple of panic went through him. That’s what she’dimplied, right? Was he being creepy again? Just hearing what he wanted to hear?
“…Yes? That’s how you’d…see them in person?” He spoke slowly, his eyes trained on her face, trying to detect where he’d gone wrong.
To his relief, she broke into a smile, a real one, though she quickly covered it with her hand. “Right. Of course. Sorry.” Her hand dropped back to her side again, the graceful arc of it mesmerizing him. “Now works. I could go now.”
“Great. Give me ten minutes. You can hang out here if you—”
“I’ll just wait in my car,” she interrupted, already heading toward the front door.
Twenty minutes later, Merritt pulledup to the curb behind Niko’s truck and turned off the engine.
Okay, maybe going over to his house was already crossing the line she’d literally just set for herself, but this was strictly business. She’d pop in, look at his furniture, and leave.
As she slammed her car door shut behind her, she realized she’d never given much thought to where he lived. She knew affordable housing was scarce. But when they pulled up to the stately, charming three-story house, she realized she’d been overcorrecting, imagining a small apartment split among several roommates.
He led her into the kitchen, which was homey and earth-toned and endearingly cluttered. She immediately gravitated toward the table.
“You made this?” This time there was no attempt to hide her admiration behind irony as she ran her hands over it. It was made of reclaimed wood, the formerly rough texture smoothand polished, with smaller planks interlocking across the surface in an intricate pattern.
“Yeah.” He rested his hand on the edge of the table, directly in the path of hers. She stopped short of touching him and glanced up, just for a split second, before kneeling to inspect the legs.
“Where’d you get the wood?”
“Barn door.”
Merritt straightened back up. “How much would you charge for something like this?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Two hundred, maybe?”
She did a double take. “Twohundred?”
“What? Is that too much?”
“If this was in a store in LA, it would be going for at least ten times that. Or at a store here, even.” She shook her head, then met his eyes again, resting her hand back on the table. “It’s beautiful. Really.”
As soon as she did, he lifted his hand to gesture toward the living room. “I also made that chair, the coffee table, the end table, the TV stand…” He paused. “And my bed.”
She looked at him but didn’t say anything, pursing her lips. He looked right back.
Under any other circumstances, it would have been an obvious line. But he seemed hesitant to complete the invitation up to his room, and she wasn’t about to invite herself.
Finally, her curiosity won out. “Can I see it?”
“Sure.”
She followed him up the stairs, her eyes trained firmly on the spot between his shoulder blades, fighting the temptation to dip lower. When he pushed open the door, she felt her heart skip a beat in anticipation.
His room was sparse but cozy. The scent of him wrappedaround her, clean laundry with a hint of musk. Her attention immediately went to the easel over by the window—currently empty, she noted with disappointment.
She suppressed the urge to go to his dresser, to examine the handful of photos stuffed in the edges of his mirror, and instead approached the bed. It was almost too large for the room, covered with a rumpled, faded plaid bedspread somewhere between made and unmade. She tentatively placed a hand on the carved wooden footboard and pushed. It didn’t budge.
“Sturdy,” she commented.
“Uh-huh. It’s pretty quiet.”
The air in the room seemed to thicken.
