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Jubilee blinks. “Jesus. Okay. I’m never underestimating you again.”

I slip the phone into my pocket before temptation gets the better of either of us, then hook an arm around her shoulders and pull her into my side. “Oh, young Padawan. How much I have to teach you.”

She rolls her eyes but leans into me anyway. “Okay, Yoda.”

I physically recoil. “You wound me. I thought I’d at least achieved Luke Skywalker territory.”

She twists beneath my arm until she’s facing me, hands settling on my hips. “Not young Ewan McGregor Obi-Wan?”

I pause. My gaze sharpens on hers with all the cheerful menace of a freshly honed scythe. “One question, Jubilee York. Choose carefully, or I will file a report for emotional damages. What Star Wars era?”

She laughs, ribbons swinging against her cheeks. “Original-trilogy purist. But I’m still messed up enough to be Team Reylo.”

I almost sweep her up and kiss her, but she slips between my arm and chest, practically bouncing toward the hallway. “Come on. Show me more!”

I follow, watching those ridiculous red ribbons bob as she starts gazing around like she belongs here.

A new feeling pulls inside me. Not lust. I know lust. Lust is simple. This is warmer, quieter. The strange, expanding ache of wanting to hear her laugh in the next room tomorrow. And the day after that.

Fuck. Very, very dangerous.

The tour takes longer than necessary because Jubilee has an opinion about everything. We barely make it into the formal dining room before she stops beneath one of the exposed beams and points overhead. “Twinkle lights. We could run them along there.”

I stop walking and slowly turn. “You said we.”

Her eyes narrow as she lowers her hand. “I made a suggestion.”

“You said we could put them there.”

“I have selective memory,” she informs me, already heading for the next room while I’m enjoying the blush spreading across her cheeks. I grin like an idiot anyway.

Upstairs, she crosses the loft and claims the chairs beneath the angled beams. “Magazine-reading nook.”

“That’s my coffee-drinking and workout-planning spot.”

“Not anymore.”

The prophecy is written. Conquest has begun.

It must be seriously unhealthy for this woman to already take over my life. And I’m the jackass indulging her.

The bathtub receives a level of reverence normally reserved for religious relics. Jubilee braces both hands against the doorframe and stares at the oversized soaking tub framed in warm wood and stone. “This is aquatic real estate.”

I hook a thumb toward the windows. “There’s a hot tub outside, too.”

Her hand flies to her chest. “Why would you tell me this when I’m emotionally vulnerable?”

“Full disclosure.”

She gives me the pouty lip. God, she’s gorgeous. And I’m failing miserably at not imagining how gorgeous she’d look in that hot tub.

I should probably be more concerned about how easily she does this. The we. The casual rearranging. The assumption that there will be another morning here, another season.

Women I’ve dated got neutral territory. My home stayed mine.

Jubilee mentally redecorates it, and somehow none of it feels invasive. That might be the most dangerous thing about her.

Eventually, we circle back to the foyer, where her suitcase still sits beside the bench. She insists on treats first, which ends with six cats crowding the kitchen island and Marzipan somehow getting double. I allow it, mostly because I’m weak. Partially because Marzipan has decided Jubilee outranks four years of my devoted service.