“Oh, right. Yeah, we can go to the living room if you want. The couch is better for aesthetics than comfort, but?—”
“Could we just go to your room?” Those big doe eyes turned up to mine, almost embarrassed to have asked for the simplest of necessities.
But it was good she asked, because I wouldn’t have offered that. There was a certain suggestion that came with inviting a woman into your bed. Now wasn’t the time to make that move.
Since she asked though, I gestured up the winding staircase. “Yeah, of course.”
I stayed at her flank, guiding her left and right through the mansion’s maze. Gwen made lighthearted quips, saying thingslike, “I’d get lost in this place without you,” and I hated that she was right.
This thing was enormous for no good reason. Every ornate detail, no matter its beauty, made me grit my teeth. Aside from the obvious, pretentious display of wealth, there were too many bad memories here. I couldn’t wait for Lizzie to grow up and decide to live in it or sell it. I already had a good nest egg in savings to buy or build something else.
But I didn’t say that, because I doubted Gwen cared. She just wanted to distract herself from the bigger thing on her mind.
When we made it to my bedroom, a quiet gasp dropped into her chest. Standing between the cherry French doors, she scanned every inch. The twelve-foot coffered ceilings, trimmed in the same stain as the doors and wainscoting. The silk wallpaper above it. She had wanted to lie down, but she practically ran across the hardwoods for the second set of French doors, wrought iron with windows that opened onto a balcony and overlooked the Rocky Mountains.
“You just wake up to this every single day.” She cupped a hand over her mouth and stared out at the view. “Like it’s no biggie.”
Honey was already at her side, wagging her tail, glancing between Gwen and the patio.
“Don’t let her out there.” I carefully clicked the bedroom doors shut behind me. “I can get a little gate for her, but the gaps between the banister are too big. She’d fall right through.”
Gwen bent over, grabbed Honey’s leash, and gave me a big grin over her shoulder. “If I hold onto her, can we check it out?”
I laughed and gestured through the glass doors. “Go ahead. The knob’s a hundred years old so it might stick .”
Her smile reached her eyes.
My God, the things I would do to keep that smile across her lips forever.
With Honey’s leash around her wrist, Gwen spun the lock and shimmied the knob. As she pulled the door open, snow spilled onto the wooden floors.
Honey backpedaled. So did Gwen.
Pressing her lips together, she awkwardly scratched her head. “Maybe not the time of year for this. Do you have a towel?”
“Don’t worry about it.” I walked that way and sat on the ottoman at the foot of the bed. Realizing that was alright, Honey yanked against her lead, bolted to me, and hopped up beside me. “You wanted to lay down, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, but I made a mess. I can’t just leave it for you to clean up.”
I didn’t mind cleaning up her messes. “You can. Seriously, just sit down.”
“I would, but…” She thumped the French door shut with her hip, then propped her hands on them. Taking slow, careful steps through the room, her gaze traveled all over. “This doesn’t feel like a relaxing kind of bedroom. This feels like a museum.”
“Not exactly my taste either.” Stroking my fingers through Honey’s fur, I gestured to the Chesterfield by the window, then the bed. “Furniture is comfy though.”
“None of it?” She gestured to the canopy bed behind me. “Not even that?”
“I appreciate the craftsmanship.” The hand-carved floral details adorning the spindles, swirling upward to the square headers at the top. The brass rings that held the black linen that swayed between them. “But I’m pretty sure this frame is worth twenty grand. That’s insane.”
Blushing, she did that simultaneous shrug-nod thing again. “I guess.”
I squinted her over. “You like it, don’t you?”
The blush didn’t fade, but a smile touched her lips. “I kinda love it, actually.”
“If it’d fit in your cabin, you could have it.”
Gwen laughed, strutting across the room to it. As she sat, she shook her head. “No, if you’re going to get rid of it, you should sell it and donate the proceeds. But just imagining all the hours that went into this.” She trailed a red manicured finger down one of the spindles. “The artist who fed their family for weeks or months from the sale. The stories of all the people who’ve lain in it. The babies made in it.” I laughed, and so did she. “I mean, I see your point. It is wasteful. But past the expense of it, there’s beauty here. History and culture. Value.”
