What you find, you keep.
My grandfather’s voice. He’d said it about land. About tools. About things that mattered.
I’d never applied it to a woman. Maybe it was time to start.
“This is...” She turned in a slow circle. “I don’t even have words.” Her head was tilted back, her full lips parted. She looked completely overwhelmed by the size of the place, her hands smoothing down the sides of her denim shorts. It hit me then—she thought she was out of place here.
She wasn’t.
I set her bag down by the stairs. “Guest room’s upstairs. Second door on the right. Bathroom’s attached.”
She wasn’t listening. She was staring at the windows, at the valley stretching out below, at the mountains in the distance going purple in the fading light.
“You built this yourself?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I designed it and lent a hand when needed.” I didn’t tell her I’d done all the finish work because I’d wanted to. I could have paid a team and gotten it done in a fraction of the time.
“That’s...” She finally looked at me. “That’s incredible.”
I’d built this place for me, because I wanted to, because I could.
But hearing her say it felt good anyway.
She looked good in my house, standing in my entryway. I could see her here in a year. In five. Her things mixed with mine. Her shoes by the door. Her coffee mug next to mine in the cabinet.
I was losing my fucking mind.
“Kitchen’s there,” I said, gesturing. “Help yourself to anything. Coffee, food, whatever.”
Her eyes tracked across the open-concept space, landing on the espresso machine on the counter.
She froze.
“Is that a La Marzocco?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh my God.” She actually took a step toward it. “I didn’t think people actually owned those. I thought they only existed in fancy cafes.”
“You want coffee?”
“Now?”
“Why not?”
“I just...” She glanced at me, then back at the machine. “Are you sure?”
I was already moving into the kitchen, flipping switches. The machine hummed to life. “You drink it strong?”
“Is there any other way?”
I almost smiled. Almost.
I ground the beans, tamped the espresso, pulled the shot. She watched me the whole time, leaning against the counter, and I was aware of her in a way I hadn’t been aware of a woman in years. If ever.
The way she tilted her head when she was curious. The way her fingers drummed against the countertop. The curve of her hip where she leaned against it. Those damn breasts pushing against her top. She had no fucking idea what she was doing to me by simply being herself.
I handed her the small cup.
