The windows start a few inches off the floor and are a lovely lead glass with transom windows above that, which open with antique brass hardware that hangs down the side for easy access. A few of the narrow windows have been made into doors that allow you to exit right into the back garden, but they are very well concealed, so it’s hard to tell unless you’re looking for the door latch.
Instead of studying the room or the garden, Memphis picks up the book I have sitting on the table between two of the overstuffed chairs. The title alone is enough to have me blushing,Dark Lover, but when he spins the book to read the back, I want to pull it right from his hand.
“Ready to see the rest of the house?” My voice is high, but I pretend it’s completely normal as I go stand near the entryway. Hell, I’ll show him my room to get him out of here now.
“Is this any good?” He lifts his eyes to mine, still clutching the book. “It looks well worn.” It’s clear he’s asking how many times I’ve read it, which is more than I can count.
He has to know I’m uncomfortable. “It’s an older book, but I enjoy it,” I defend weakly.
“Have you finished it?” He continues to watch me.
“I have. You’re welcome to borrow it.” I pivot and head toward the kitchen. That should end that conversation, I hope. I can’t imagine him actually reading the book, he’s just trying to mess with me. Why does he get under my skin so much? I could probably laugh it off if it were Oswald who asked me.
Memphis places the book on the island as if he has every intention of borrowing the damn thing. That’ll teach me to put stuff away. Now I’m wondering if I left anything else out I should be worried about.
I thought showing him around would help pass the time until Oswald got back, but maybe I should have just asked if he wanted a drink or a snack or something.
“Where’s your room?” His eyes scan the other doorways out of the kitchen.
“Upstairs,” I chirp.
“Good. Show it to me?” He’s pretending it’s a question, but I have my doubts.
My stomach does that flippy floppy thing, and I agree. “Okay.”
The moment my hand touches the rail to the stairs, I have second thoughts, not because I care if he sees my room, but because he’s going to be behind me on the stairs and my butt is going to be in his face. Gah, I’m so weird. Do other people think about stuff like this?
I almost trip up the stairs, I hustle up them so fast. I’m breathing a little heavily when I reach the top, but I think it’s mostly from nerves. I’ve had friends in my room before, but there was always someone home, and we’re alone. This feels different.
My bedroom is in the back corner overlooking the garden, so when we pass the spare rooms, I point them out. “Bedroom, bedroom, bathroom, bathroom.” When we reach my door, I just push it open for him, expecting him to look inside, but he waltzes right past me, walks over to the balcony, and tries the door, finding it locked.
I lean against the wall and watch him move to the windows next, checking them. “I have an alarm,” I tell him, a little crestfallen. I’m not sad he’s worried about my safety, I’m sad that’s all he seems concerned with, but I think it’s helping me understand him a little more. He’s a caregiver. It makes me wonder if he raised Oswald, or what happened to make him worry about things like this.
When I know him a little better and it won’t be too intrusive, I’ll ask. The thought strikes me as funny since he’s roaming around my bedroom. When he passes the television, he taps the button on the side, and the screen blips on to show a still image ofJohn Wick, asking me if I would like to resume the movie.
Memphis’ brow rises, and he looks over at me. “Vampires and violence,” he says as if he’s just summarized my entire being because he found one of my favorite books and movies.
“You’re nosy,” I blurt out, then cover my lips with my fingers. One side of Memphis’ lips curl up in a slight smile, but he doesn’t respond to my rude remark beyond that.
“What’s through there?” He points to a door.
“My bathroom, nothing fancy, and a closet.” I gesture to the other door.
“Why do you live here alone?” he questions while standing near my bed.
“Because I thought I would like it. Do you live alone?”
“Technically yes, but Oz is always there, so it doesn’t seem like it.”
“I bet that’s nice,” I say genuinely.
“It can be. Do you have any siblings?”
“Not anymore.”
“What does that mean?” His brows drop suddenly.
“I had an older brother, but he died when I was little. I don’t remember him.” This isn’t something I usually share. It makes people feel sorry for me, and I don’t like that.
