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Understandable.
They’re the exact words my father has recited to my mother countless times. We can’t go to prison for something we don’t know about.
After declining dessert, Benny looks at me and says, “Time to see your new home.”
* * *
I don’t knowwhat I expected from mynew home, but it wasn’t this.
I’ll admit. I got my hopes up.
But Benny grew up in a home rich in character.
Romanesque architecture with vaulted ceilings, arched walkways, and marble flooring. You’ll never find a home like the Marchetti mansion. Yes, it’s a multimillion-dollar home, but the size and cost aren’t what provide the allure.
It’s the details.
The life breathed into it.
I hoped Benny shared that peculiarity.
Sitting in the passenger seat of Benny’s SUV, I bite into the inside of my cheek.
I don’t want to appear like a spoiled brat, whining about a home that probably cost a good seven figures, but I should have a say in where I live.
“It’s …” My words trail off, and it takes a moment for me to finish my sentence. I decide to go with honesty. “It looks like a white box with windows.”
It’s stale.
Floor-to-ceiling windows span nearly every inch, giving me a glimpse of the home's interior. The landscaping contains nothing but shrubbery and has no bright flowers. It’s too modern for my taste.
Benny disregards my comment and steps out of the SUV.
I do the same.
We walk up the concrete walkway of the house, and I don’t miss the security system’s motion sensors following our every move. Benny keys in a code at the glass front door and signals for me to step inside first.
What I walk into is a bachelor pad.
Not a new home for a wife—even if I’m anunwanted wife.
Reminder: I need to correct him about his little nickname for me.
The scent of clean linen and lemon wafts in the air. The space has no evidence of being lived in. The white couch looks like it’s never been sat on, and there isn’tonethrow pillow. The walls are a gray so light that they appear almost white.
The home has good bones with its open floor plan and architecture, if that’s your style. But to make it a home I’d feel comfortable in, it would need work. The maple wood flooring provides some comfort, but it still lacks a homey feel.
I stroll into the kitchen and brush my fingers along the cold quartz countertop. Benny shoves his hands into his pockets, and his gaze follows me.
The chef’s kitchen, complete with a Viking stove and stained wood cabinets, will give me plenty of space to cook—which is something I love to do.
“Are we, uh … married to this home?” I ask.
Benny follows me into the kitchen. “I had it built only a year ago.”
“Can I throw out the idea of living somewhere else … or is the option of separate living still on the table?”
He stares at me, unblinking.
