And I wasn’t ready to let it go.
“You’re just going to hand-deliver flowers and expect to be let inside?” I asked, standing in my doorway with my arms crossed and the bouquet still in hand.
Ben grinned. “I was hoping you’d be too flattered to say no.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, but my smile gave me away. “It’s working. Don’t get used to it.”
I stepped aside and let him in.
The moment he crossed the threshold of my little house, something shifted. It wasn’t a mansion. It wasn’t even a particularly organized 800 square feet, but it was mine. Bright yellow curtains. Stacks of books on every end table. A gallery wall of old photos, mismatched frames, and one very crooked watercolor I’d painted during aself-carephase that involved more wine than artistic skill.
He stopped in the middle of the living room and looked around like he was absorbing it all slowly.
“This place is…” he trailed off, then smiled at me over his shoulder, “very you.”
“Messy with a good heart?”
He chuckled. “It’s warm, cozy, and smells like cinnamon and dreams.”
“That’s literally my candle,” I said, sniffing. “Cinnamon Dreams. It was on sale.”
He turned and wandered toward my small kitchen, peering at the fridge plastered in magnets from places I’d never been, gifts from guests over the years, and a grocery list I’d forgotten to remove that had batteries, cheese, and emergency wine scrawled in my handwriting.
I suddenly felt weirdly exposed.
It wasn’t in a bad way, just in ahe’s-seeing-my-unfiltered-lifeway. But I wasn’t used to that.
“Do you always keep three loaves of banana bread on the counter?” he asked, peeking over at the ceramic tray.
I crossed my arms. “You never know when an emotional breakdown might require baked goods. I was about to put them in the freezer.”
He nodded solemnly. “Smart. Strategic.”
I shrugged. “It’s part of my charm.”
He turned back to me, resting his hip against the counter, eyes sweeping the space with what looked like real appreciation. “You’ve got good taste.”
“Careful,” I warned. “You keep being complimentary, and I’ll start thinking you like me.”
He stepped toward me, gaze soft but teasing. “Would that be such a bad thing?”
My cheeks warmed. “Debatable.”
Ben laughed again, the sound easy and deep and far too comfortable for a man who had his return flight booked in a few days.
I led him into the cozy living room, gesturing to the wide old couch with its dip in the middle and the colorful quilt thrown over the back. “This is where I eat too much popcorn and pretend I’m going to do yoga during commercials.”
He sat down, his large frame somehow fitting just right, and pulled one of the quilt corners over his lap like he’d done it a dozen times before.
“You have a good life,” he said quietly, looking around again.
“I do,” I agreed. “Even if it includes rogue chickens and glitter in my shampoo.”
He smiled.
We talked for a while about funny guests who once tried to milk a goat that wasn’t a goat, and the time I accidentally hosted a bachelor party of illusionists instead of strippers. Light stuff. Fun stuff. The kind of stuff that didn’t make my chest ache.
But even while I laughed and snuck glances at the way his eyes creased when he smiled, I couldn’t stop the creeping thought in the back of my mind.
