Page 7 of Slapshot Bride

I’ve spent enough time around Preston and his friends to recognize money when I see it, and this house has plenty of it. Maybe Easton works in finance. Maybe he’s a lawyer. Maybe he runs some company I’ve never heard of.

I don’t ask.

For once, I don’t want to know.

I’m tired of finance guys and lawyers and men who talk about portfolios over dinner and compare watches when they think nobody notices. I’m tired of caring what someone does, who their family is, or how many zeroes sit in their bank account.

Right now, Easton is just Easton.

I follow him inside and then I stop.

Nobody lives here.

Not literally. There’s furniture. A long, low couch, a coffee table, an armchair angled toward a fireplace that looks like it has never been used. A kitchen island with three barstools. A dining table for eight. All of it is expensive and well-chosen.

This house is fully furnished and thoughtfully too, but the air still smells new, the way an Airbnb smells the first night, like the throw pillows are still in their original arrangement and the candles on the mantel have never been lit. No coats by the door. No mail on the counter. No half-read book splayed open on the arm of the couch. No water glass anyone forgot to take to the kitchen. The whole place has the clean, staged quietness of a property someone bought intending to live in and then forgot the second half of.

I turn a slow circle. I can’t help it.

Easton watches me do it, in that watchful way he’s been staring since I got into his car.

But when my eyes find his, I see a smile tug at his lips.

“Relax,” he says. “I’m not a serial killer. Serial killers have homely homes, and probably better furniture.”

I laugh before I mean to, and it startles me. I hadn’t been sure laughing was still on the menu today. But somehow, since meeting this man, I’ve done that a couple of times, and even thrown a few jokes around.

“That’s… actually a little reassuring?”

“Little?” His eyes narrow playfully.

I shake my head, spinning around to see the place again.

“The bar for today is underground.” I look at the orderly arrangement of the throw pillows. Then the bare wall across from it. The house may be well furnished, but a few pieces are still missing in certain spaces, giving it a work-in-progress look. “Do you actually live here?”

“Technically.”

“What does technically mean?”

He sets his keys on the kitchen counter, the one surface in the room that has any signs of life, a phone charger, a protein bar wrapper, a mostly empty coffee mug, and pulls open the fridge. He looks inside for a second, like he’s checking if it’s still there, then closes it again.

“I bought it eight months ago, but I’m barely here. Most days I leave early and get back late, and I’m away a lot too. I haven’t exactly had time to...” He gestures broadly at the space around him. “...live in it, let alone worry about the furniture.”

He glances around like he’s seeing the room for the first time.

“Everything you see was picked out by an interior designer the realtor recommended. I basically showed up with a suitcase and started sleeping here. So, no. I haven’t made it a thing.”

“You mean a home.”

“I meant a thing.” But the corner of his mouth tilts up. “I’ve been meaning to get a rug or something.”

That draws my attention to the floors. They’re clean. Pristine even.

“Ever considered living in it?” I wave my hand around the space. “Walking around… spending time in the living room… or something at least? It's what you need to break it in, not some fancy rug.”

I look around again, and something about the emptiness that I can’t quite name makes me feel fractionally better. Not better like things are okay, but better like there’s no version of me here. It’s like being handed a clean slate to start over. The irony.

I press my palm flat against the bare wall beside me. Cool plaster.