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“Where are we?” I rub my eyes. “A safe house?”
My family owns several safe houses. It’s not uncommon to go to one when there’s a threat.
“This is your new home,” Benny replies.
“New home? You bought another house?”
“It was my grandparents’ home. I’m renting it from my father until we find something else. You weren’t a fan of the first place I showed you. What did you call it, asaltine crackerhome?” There’s no animosity in his tone as he repeats my insult.
He moved us into a new home because I didn’t like the other one?
I scan my surroundings. An old Mercedes is parked next to us. The garage is full of old Coca-Cola memorabilia, and an old wooden bench is pushed against a wall. Birdhouses—some of them complete, some not—line the bench.
“What about the saltine cracker?” I ask around a yawn.
“I’ll sell it.” He shrugs and turns off the SUV. “Keep it. I haven’t decided.”
“Why?”
“My wife doesn’t like my house, so I have to buy her a new one,” he replies, like it was a simple task, as if I’d asked him to pick up something from the store. “Until then, we’ll stay here. The home was approved by your mom, and we’d already installed a security system.”
My bare feet slap against the concrete floor when I step out of the SUV and follow Benny through a door with chipped paint leading into the home. A cherry-wood staircase takes up most of the space in the narrow foyer.
The house is older.
Outdated.
But homey.
I don’t need a mansion.
I only need comfort.
“I like this.” I run a hand over the railing, and my fingers brush against the nicks in the wood.
“My mother grew up here.” He shuts the door and turns the lock. “My father promised her he’d never sell it.”
I love that there’s a memory of his mother here.
History makes a home cozy—as if everyone who lived here left a piece of their heart.
“I’ll give you a tour tomorrow,” he says. “But for now, I’ll show you the bedroom.” He jerks his head toward the stairs.
A wave of nausea hits me.
It’s ourwedding night.
Those words hold such significance for newlyweds.
I nod and pretend my knees aren’t wobbly as I walk up the creaky stairs. “Which bedroom is mine?”
Benny is so close behind that his chest brushes my back with every step. “First door to your left.”
As soon as I hit the doorway of the room he pointed out, I turn to block him from entering. “Good night. See you in the morning.” The words leave my mouth so fast that they sound as if they were one. “Good job at the wedding today … and thank you for saving my life.”
I curtsy.
I fucking curtsy.
