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“Let me show you the room, and you can put your stuff away. We can hash out the details later.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Bringing my stuff, I follow her toward the bedroom, trying to ignore the sway of her hips. When we get to the door, I step back and gesture for her to go first.

I rest my shoulder on the doorframe, and the first thing I see is the bed.

Our bed.

Black wrought iron and no larger than a full size. It sits in the center of the room, adorned with a fluffy white duvet and a variety of colorful throws. A vase on one wooden nightstand holds fresh sprigs of flowers while a repurposed trunk serves as a second nightstand, topped with a brass lamp. A tall wooden dresser and a mirror in one corner complete the ensemble.

She opens a portion of her closet, offering me space for my belongings, and then mentions that I can have the top two drawers in her dresser.

Suddenly, the room feels small with both of us standing in it, but Lucy’s words break the tension. “I know it’s not the penthouse or anything, but it’s home,” she says with a hint of uncertainty.

I quickly reassure her, “No, it’s great. I love it,” and I mean it.

Despite the contrast to my New York penthouse, this place feels like a true home—and for the first time, I realize just how sparse and cold my place feels compared to this.

I’m lost in thought, and Lucy tries to fill the silence, pointing out various features of the room. “So, um, there’s the bed, obviously,” she says with a nervous laugh, gesturing toward the wrought iron frame.

“And, uh, those are some of my favorite throws on the end there,” she continues, pointing to the colorful blankets. “Oh, and the flowers—I try to keep them fresh,” she adds, indicating the vase on the nightstand.

I listen attentively, amused by her nervous energy. “It’s lovely,” I assure her, hoping to ease her apprehension. “Thank you for letting me stay here.”

She smiles gratefully, her nerves visibly easing. “Of course,” she says, her voice softening. “It’s nice to have you here.”

And fuck if it doesn’t feel good to be wanted… even for pretend.

Chapter 11

Lucy

I sink into the cushions of the sofa, exhaustion creeping in. From the car ride to what should have been a fun get-to-know-each-other game, where we both revealed way more than intended… it’s been a long day.

When he almost kissed me downstairs and then carried me over the threshold—well, I really have no words. Because my mind is still processing everything. Plus, it’s too damn hard to think with him so close. My apartment always felt like a decent size. That was until Beau Montgomery.

He’s sitting next to me, typing furiously on his laptop. I look over at him, studying the way his brown hair is all mussed up from running his hand through it all evening. I have my tells, and he has his. But every time he runs his fingers through his dark brown locks, I can’t help but remember how it felt between my own as I gripped it to pull him closer as he made me see stars.

He looks up from his screen and catches me watching him.

I don’t look away—I couldn’t if I wanted to. It’s that unexplainable pull I’ve felt toward him since he handed me back my panties and followed me into that elevator.

“You good?” he finally asks.

“Yeah, I was just thinking about dinner.”

“Should I prepare to be wowed by your domestic culinary skills?” he teases.

“Nope, but I’m an expert at ordering takeout. I rarely cook. I feel like I’m always on the go, and it’s usually just me, so…” I don’t finish that thought. Because I don’t like how lonely it makes me sound.

“No judgment here. I live on takeout back home. What’s your go-to?”

I think, nibbling on my lip, trying to decide which place to go with.

“There is no wrong answer, Sunny. How about this… if I wasn’t here, what would you do for dinner?”

“Easy, pizza and a movie in my pajamas. Most likely an Audrey Hepburn flick.”

“That sounds perfect.” He snaps his laptop shut and stands to stretch, raising his arms high over his head. I try to ignore the way his cotton shirt rides up and exposes the tiny trail of dark hair that disappears beneath the waistband of his jeans.