“There’s a half bath here,” I say, pointing to a slightly open door. And each of the bedrooms has an en suite. “Here’s the guest room.” I open the door at the end of the hall and flip on the light.
With a hand on the doorframe, she looks inside. It’s simplewith only a queen bed and a dresser. Clean but impersonal, like the rest of the place.
“This will be fine,” she says.
“The master is bigger. Better bathroom. Better view.” I nod toward the other end of the hall. “You should take it.”
Her eyes narrow. “And where would you sleep?”
“Here. Or the couch. I'm not picky.”
She folds her arms over her chest, her expression shadowed by suspicion. “Why would you give up your bedroom?”
“Because you didn't ask for any of this, and the least I can do is make sure you're comfortable.” I shrug. “It's not complicated.”
She studies me, like she's waiting for the catch.
“There's no angle,” I say. “Take the room or don't. It’s up to you.”
A long second stretches between us before she finally says, “Fine. I'll take it. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. See, that was easy, right?” I head back to the foyer to grab her bags, then carry them to the master bedroom. She follows, standing in the doorway as I put them down.
The room is sparse, like the rest of the place. King-size bed with gray sheets and matching comforter. A stack of books about car restoration sits on the nightstand. Nothing personal.
“You’re not really into decorating,” she says, her eyes sweeping around the room.
“I'm not sentimental. And I don’t like a lot of clutter.”
“There are no photos or art. Nothing that gives any indication about who you are,” she says.
I run a hand through my hair. “Maybe that says everything about who I am.”
She's quiet for a moment, still staring at me, still trying to figure me out. “I don’t know if I believe that. I think there might be a lot more there, things that you don’t like to share. Things that it feels safer to keep buried.”
“I thought you were a business phenom, not a shrink,” I say.
She shrugs. “I’m pretty observant. And I’m a master at analyzing people. It’s kind of an occupational hazard. Winning deals means you have to know how to read people.”
“Well, I hate to disappoint you, but I don’t have ulterior motives. Or agendas. I’m just me. A low-maintenance kinda guy.”
“If you say so,” she says.
I grab a pillow and a blanket from the closet, knowing she’s right and hating that she could see through me so easily. “Bathroom's through that door. Towels are in the cabinet. Help yourself to whatever you need.” I turn to leave, looking everywhere but directly at her.
“Lochlan.”
I stop, take a breath, and turn.
She roots me to the spot with that sharp gaze, the one that probably terrifies people in boardrooms.
“I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop,” she says. “For you to turn into whoever you really are when no one's watching.”
I hold her gaze. “You want to know who I really am?”
“Yes.”
“I'm a guy who was forced into this just like you. Who doesn't want to be his father. Who's trying to figure out how to protect people he doesn't even know yet because that's apparently what the universe decided I'm supposed to do.” I pause. “And right now, I'm a guy who really wants to eat ice cream on his couch with his dog and pretend this day didn't happen. That's it. No grand agenda. No secret plan. Just me, ice cream, and denial.”
