“I only bought this place a few years ago,” I murmur, pulling onto my driveway.
My craftsman cottage is a fixer-upper. I bought it cheaply a few years ago with the intention of renovating it room by room. That was until the Thomas Vale case took over my life, and I haven’t been able to muster the energy to do anything, which means it’s a construction site. But it’s better than going to Jonesy’s apartment. I wasn’t joking about him being messy in college. His room was always a dump site when the group would go around.
But now . . .
I know he bought a nice place in the city center. It’s in one of those fancy buildings that you know has crazy fees for having a doorman and an on-site gym. I didn’t want him to see my face as I took in his perfectly decorated apartment with views overlooking the harbor. So I insisted we come to my house, despite it being a twenty-five-minute drive away.
I’m surprised he said yes, but perhaps his curiosity outweighed the effort it would take to drive here.
I step out of the car, locking it as I lead the way down the garden path. The pathing slabs lined with those little solar-powered lights. They’re not particularly bright when they turn on, but I like that. It makes the garden look a little more put-together than it is. Not that Jonesy willsee them turned on. It’s mid-afternoon now; he’ll be gone in a few hours.
“I haven’t renovated it yet. It’s a work in progress.”
He doesn’t respond, moving closely behind me. I suck in a deep breath before unlocking the door.
I keep my shoes on—no point in removing them when the flooring isn’t complete yet. I look at the entry as if I were seeing it for the first time, like he is. The raw wood of the banister, one painted wall, brushes, and paint pots strewn on the floor. They’ve been sitting there for over a year. I just haven’t had the time or the willpower to tidy them away, let alone finish the task.
Heat fills my cheeks suddenly, and I have to bite my lip to control myself. Why am I getting embarrassed? Upset? I don’t care what he thinks. I used to, but not now. But it’s almost as if his being here is confronting me as to how I’ve been living for the last few years. My home isn’t a sanctuary. It’s not somewhere I can come and relax after a long day. It’s a mess.
“Wow. This place is a shithole, princess. No wonder you didn’t bring anyone round to see it,” Jonesy says, his eyes wandering around the room before leaning forward to look into what should be a living room.
“Lottie, Caleb, and Alfie have all been here,” I grit out, trying desperately hard not to slap the insult right off his mouth.
“What?”
“They’ve all been. Mia came a few weeks ago to see how I was getting on as well.”
“Mia...who’s been with Alfie for five minutes has seen your place, and I haven't?”
Is that hurt laced in his tone? Surely not. I’m not sure he’s capable of it.
“Do you have other meetups without me, or was that the only time?” he bites.
I sigh, heading to the back of the house where the kitchen is. Pulling on the fridge door, I grab a couple of water bottles.
“Caleb helped me move in. Alfie was passing by. Lottie celebrated with me the day I got the keys. We drank champagne and ordered Chinese food. No big deal.”
“No big deal. Right.” He leans on the kitchen island, the one part of the room that is finished, running his finger along the counter.
I slap my bag down, ignoring his obvious discomfort. I’ll keep this professional, and then we can move on with our lives. I take out the documents and transcript from today’s interview. We have the CCTV to watch as well, which will take some time.
“Want to split up the tasks?”
He huffs out a breath, pushing his fingers through the longer strands of his hair. “Like in college?”
“Yeah, I’ll drag you up from a B+ to an A if you work with me.”
“So mean today, princess.” His jovial mood seems to have returned, as his eyes dance with mischief.
He was mean first. No need to call my house a shithole.
“I don’t think I’m being any different than usual,” I snip, because I just can’t help myself.
“No? Not purposely trying to hurt me by leaving me out of things?” he goads, running a hand over his mouth.
“Those things didn’t happen today.”
“No, but you only told me about it today.” His eyebrow arches, and I have to turn away when the scrutiny of his gaze heats my cheeks. I don’t like being mean. I’m a good person,most of the time. He just brings out the demon in me that’s usually reserved for the week before my period, when my boobs ache, my cramps set my body on fire, and everything pisses me off.
