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Again, that swelling feeling. Rosé is my go-to drink. I’d bet the contents of my savings account that it’s Whispering Angel, my favorite kind.
I wrinkle my brow. “Honestly, Abel, I would’ve never taken you for such a thoughtful entertainer.”
A dark flash moves across his eyes. “I’m generous where it counts.”
Squeezing my thighs together, I paste on a smile. “Lucky me, then.”
There’s an antique table and banquette on the other side of the kitchen. A fireplace beside it, making the nook feel cozy. Perfect work-from-home spot.
He shows me where the laundry room is off the kitchen, along with an insanely sexy powder room with mirrored walls. I can’t help but wonder how many women Abel’s beengenerouswith in here. The long concrete countertop and low lighting are just begging for it.
I imagine being bent over that countertop. Abel behindme, pushing up my dress with his hands. Our eyes meeting in the mirror?—
“Bedroom is upstairs,” Abel is saying, flicking off the bathroom lights.
Yikes.
Crossing my arms over my chest to hide my painfully tight nipples, I follow him back to the bottom of the stairs.
I manage to snatch my tote and the girls’ crate before Abel grabs my suitcases and leads me up to the second floor.
There’s a pair of rooms at the top of the landing. The first appears to be a home office, complete with a drafting table and desktop monitor.
The second is a huge suite with the biggest, sexiest, most low-slung bed I’ve ever seen. The bed is neatly made with a fluffy duvet and pillows. There’s a stack of books on the nightstand. A noise machine. And a leather-bound journal, its pages thick and wrinkled with scribbles, beside it.
Abel sets my suitcases inside. “This is you.”
“What? No. This is clearly the primary suite. Unless you’re hiding an even more ridiculously gorgeous bedroom somewhere?” I glance around.
“Nope.”
My body pulses so hard I worry I’ll blackout. “There’s only one bedroom?”
“Technically two. Well, three, if you count the unfinished space above the garage. But I use the other one up here as a studio, so really there’s one bedroom in the house.”
I stare at him. “One bedroom.”
“Yes.”
“You failed to mention this important detail.”
Jamming his hands into his pockets, he shrugs. “Didn’t seem like a big deal. You sleep here, and I’ll sleep in the studio next-door.”
“What? No. On the floor?”
“There’s a pull-out sofa in there.”
My pulse scatters. “Why don’t you have a guest room?”
He smirks. “Because the guests I have don’t use it.”
“You really designed and built an entire house to accommodatethat?” I feel a stab of... something unpleasant at the thought.
“Hey. I took my cigar habit and my preference to air-dry my clothes into account too.” His eyes dance.
I don’t want to smile, but I do. “I’m not kicking you out of your own room.”
“And I’m not letting you sleep on a pull-out sofa. There’s three of y’all”—he motions to the dogs, who have followed us upstairs and are currently sniffing at the bottom of a nightstand—“and only one of me.”
