“No,” I say with a grin. “I don’t need four bedrooms. I’m in the back.”
We leave the truck, and I lead her to the gate that separates my place and my downstairs neighbor from our landlord’s backyard. Millie sees the duplex and gives me a funny look.
“You rent?”
“Yeah,” I say, taking her hand and leading her up the wooden stairs that line the side of the duplex. “Does that surprise you?”
She nods. “It does. Shouldn’t a builder have a house of his own?”
I sniff a laugh. “One day, but right now this works for me.” I slip the key into the lock and deadbolt and hold the door open for her. “No upkeep. No yard work. I’m not here all that much.”
She tilts her head to the side, taking in my sparse furnishings and almost completely bare walls. “Now, that doesn’t surprise me.” Millie faces me again with a pretty, winged brow. “You work all the time.”
“I like it,” I say with a shrug.
“I like my work, too, but I wouldn’t want to do it twelve hours a day.” She drops her purse by the front door, and, for the first time, I realize my apartment is missing a coat rack or a hall tree or something. A place to put purses and coats and shit.
“Sit down,” I say, gesturing to the couch. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee?”
Millie sits but wrinkles her nose and crosses her arms in front of her chest. “I don’t think I need any caffeine.”
My brows lower. “Are you worried?” Now that I’ve asked, I can see she is. And I don’t want her to be. She needs a break from all that. “The kids will be cool.”
She shakes her head. “I'm not…worriedexactly.”
I take her in, her stiff posture. Her balled up fists. She’s not worried. She’s nervous.
I set my keys on the coffee table and sit next to her. Close, but not touching.
“I meant what I said. We can just hang out tonight. You don’t need to be nervous.”
Her cheeks go pink in the way that tugs at my ribcage, and she looks at me under her lashes, all embarrassed. “Gah! You’re making it worse.” Then she hides her face behind her hands.
I laugh—she’s always making me laugh—but I get the idea that without the kids to worry about and fuss over, Millie doesn’t really know what to do with herself.
“Stop thinking.” I grab her by the wrists to ground her, but I don’t pull her hands away. She can hide a little while longer if she wants to. “Just be.”
She spreads her fingers and peeks through them. “Be how?”
I roll one shoulder. “Be here.”
She blows out a breath and drops her hand. “I wish I could have a drink.”
I have a bottle of wine that has been on top of my fridge for a good six months from when we finished a wine cellar for a client.
“Would one glass of wine be so bad?”
She tilts her head from side to side in silent debate. “Antibiotics are bad enough. No need to stress my liver more than it’s already being stressed.”
“Good point. How about some tea? My downstairs neighbor is kind of a tea fanatic,” I say, dropping my voice just in case my neighbor, Hen, can hear me. “She’s from England. She gave me some chamomile-lavender tea a couple of weeks ago because she said she could hear me walking around in the middle of the night.”
Millie’s expression softens. “Do you have trouble sleeping?”
I give her a half shrug. “I wouldn’t call it trouble. I don’t sleep much.”
Her mouth tips up in a smile. “That doesn’t surprise me either.” But then she nods. “Tea sounds good.”
I head to the kitchen, fill the electric kettle, and take down two mugs.
