Does she really think I’d let her carry her own suitcase?
I straighten first, breaking the moment, and pull the suitcase free of her grip. She lets go; her fingers slip from the handle and graze my knuckles.
“This way.” I take her pink duffel as well.
I don’t wait to see if she follows. I can hear her steps behind me.
My house feels different already. Ceilings the same height, walls the same white, but there’s energy in the air that wasn’t here five minutes ago.
“Welcome.”
She steps inside and looks around, eyes wide with awe.
“Wow,” she breathes. “This place is huge.”
“It’s a house,” I shrug.
“It’s a mansion, Captain Flex.”
“Bet you’re happy you put that as one of your conditions.” I give her a look.
Her face falls in an instant. It’s like watching a light flicker out.
“Well, you could’ve said no and put an end to all of this,” she says with sass, but there’s something new in her expression I haven’t seen before.
That condition is the thing that made me assume she was a money-loving, status-chasing, image-obsessed woman.
But my gut tells me she’s the opposite. She looks… guilty. Embarrassed. Like the condition suddenly sounds stupid to her now.
“If you prefer, I can pitch a tent in the backyard. I’d still check the girlfriend living arrangement box, right?”
She lets out a tiny laugh, forced, nervous, deflecting.
For the first time since meeting her, she looks small. As if she overstepped, and now I must think she’s a gold-digging cliché.
I narrow my eyes—not at her, but at the thought.
A tent in the backyard.
Something tells me she’s not doing this for my house. No one sane moves into a near stranger’s house without a good reason, no matter how big or flashy the house is.
“Well, make yourself at home,” I say, softening a little. “I’ll show you the room.”
“Not a tent in the backyard?” she teases with a smile.
“Don’t tempt me.” I lift her luggage again.
She follows me up the stairs, taking in the interior with curious eyes.
The guest room next to mine is already open. Melody insisted it had to be “softened” before Jessica arrived. She attacked it with my housekeeper—new sheets, throw pillows, a plant, a candle on the nightstand. It no longer looks like a spare room. It looks like a place someone will actually live.
“This is your room.” I point with my chin.
She peeks inside, then steps back to make room. I roll the suitcase in and park it by the closet. The room suddenly feels full with her standing in the doorway, eyes taking everything in.
“It’s so nice in here,” she says, stepping in slowly. “I expected you to throw me in the dungeons or the attic. I feel cheated.”
“Melody,” I say, which is explanation enough.
