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Her eyes are wide as she literally twirls on the spot to take it all in.
‘Yes.’
‘When?’
Here we go...
‘The contractors finished last year.’
And there it is. She stops, the tip of one heel clipping the polished marble floor of the hallway as she asks, ‘An investment?’
‘A home.’
‘But you... When we talked you suggested...made it sound like it wasn’t a done deal—that you were considering living here, not actually living here.’
‘I know. I guess I wasn’t sure myself—not entirely.’
‘But you had this built before—?’
She breaks off and I know she can’t mention the crash. I’m not sure I want to either, so I say, ‘Yes.’
Her smile is laced with sadness. ‘It’s amazing.’
‘You like it, then?’
My ego is waiting for her answer. Hell, it was designed to my own specification, every last centimetre agonised over. As if I wanted to create perfection to lure me home, to make that transition easier.
She frowns at me and I can see the question in her eyes before she even asks it. ‘Does it matter to you if I do?’
Does it? Yes. Regardless of my ego, I want her to like it for reasons I don’t want to explore—just as I don’t want to examine my real reasoning for bringing her back here.
‘Yes.’
Her eyes glisten and she looks away, moving through the hallway under the pretence of exploring. But I know she’s trying to hide from me. I foll
ow her, captivated by every brush of her fingers over the surfaces, the sweep of her eyes. She looks through doorways, takes in the vaulted ceiling high above, the occasional piece of art. There isn’t much of ‘me’ here in terms of possessions—not yet—but the shell, the fixtures and fittings...that’s all me, thanks to my design team.
‘It really is incredible,’ she says softly.
My heart soars more than I’d like. ‘I’m glad you approve.’
She walks into the open-plan kitchen, with its sleek black work surfaces, the white units that show no handles, the range cooker that I wouldn’t know how to use...much to Mum’s chagrin.
Lexi would, though. The thought is impulsive, and now it’s there I can’t let it go. I imagine her...fluffy jumper, silly socks, all casual and baking, earphones in, singing...the idea warms me from the inside out.
‘Is that a swim spa?’
‘Hmm?’
I pull my eyes from the stove, back to her. The real her, not the imaginary version. And it’s just as appealing, just as damaged, and just as perfect with it.
She’s in front of the glass that runs the full length of the room. Outside, the hard-landscaped garden is illuminated with subtle lights that enhance rather than glare and, as she so rightly surmised, there’s my steaming swim spa, just waiting for its lid to be rolled back and enjoyed.
Beyond that is the open sea.
It’s private, secluded—a real oasis.
An oasis in which I could lie her back in the bubbling water, her flushed skin bare to my gaze, my hands, my tongue... The image plays out, my body overheating with it.
