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Confidence.

It hits me while I’m putting my clothes away in yet another walk-in closet—because yes, apparently all the bedrooms in this mansion have not only their own en suite with a bathtub and a glass shower, but a walk-in closet, a little sitting room, a huge mounted TV in front of a king-sized bed, and even a kitchenette built into the cupboards surrounding the entertainment center.

It’s like a very homey hotel suite.

I was surprised that it wasn’t all gray walls and white bedsheets.

Instead, I have a navy accent wall, a window reading nook, wall-to-ceiling, long, thick curtains that are more royal blue than navy, and gray-and-blue bedsheets.

The cupboards around the TV and in the walk-in closet, the floor, headboard, nightstand, and even the bathroom counter are wood, in a deep brown tone, though I have no idea what kind, and the two hung artworks are pictures of beaches. Probably in the state somewhere, but I can’t pinpoint where.

With gold hardware, everything feels like a space someone actually uses—which I doubt is a fact.

It’s a lot more inviting than anything I imagined, and while I stare at the half-full drawer where I’m putting my folded T-shirts, I suddenly have the urge to burst out laughing and dance.

I don’t.

Yes, the confidence feels like a pair of perfectly worn-in jeans I forgot I had, and the room feels like home—even though I cringe at the mere thought, I can’t deny it—but I know damn well this isn’t the time to celebrate . . . whatever it is I feel like I’ve accomplished.

My reactions to Tucker are worrying at best, downright insane at worst, which means that they’re probably more unethical than anything.

And that’s not something I’ve ever been.

I quit my dream job when my partner fucked my boss for fuck’s sake. Sure, he pushed me into it, convinced me, but I still did it.

Even though I know now that I’m not the one who should’ve suffered any consequences for that, I still think everyone removing themselves from that situation was the right thing to do, even though I’m the only one who did it.

There’s no version of this where it’s right for me to have any sort of feelings toward Tucker, even if he is the only man I’ve felt any attraction to in at least a year—because I now understand I didn’t feel attracted to Henry for a very long time—even if that attraction feels a little bit like a miracle.

None of it matters, because I have a job to do, and I am not going to fuck it up.

The day passes by quickly. Johnny’s great about showing me where everything is around the house, introducing me also to Logan who takes care of the outside of the house, and Felicia, the housekeeper who comes by for a few hours every day.

I familiarize myself with the boys’ room, with the living room where they hang out, the games room in the basement where they spend time in the evenings sometimes, the living room where, according to Johnny, Tucker occasionally teaches them how to play easy video games, and their playroom.

The boys have absolutely everything a boy—of any age—could ever want or need, and Johnny makes it a point to mention that Tucker has had this in this house since the renovations finished a few months ago.

I get the message loud and clear.

Even before he became their guardian he was very intentional about spending time with them and carving out a space that would be welcoming and nurturing for them.

I also peek into the three rooms he has set up for all his nieces and nephews—on the same floor as the boys’ room—and the additional three bedrooms set up for his sisters and their husbands.

It doesn’t make me happy, witnessing the loud and free love he has for his family, or how obviously he wants time with them.

If anything, it’s annoying.

I want flaws, right this second.

They don’t appear.

By the time I’m buckling the boys into their car seats in the back row of the big, black—and probably armored—SUV, I’ve learned that Johnny was told to treat me as part of the family, meaning he has to protect me too.

From what?

Nobody knows.

I’ve learned that I get approval on every meal planned for the week, which Angelo has pinned to the fridge, and that Felicia will be cleaning my room, doing my laundry, and getting anything and everything I need—shampoo, soap, books for the boys, toys, literally anything.