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“Big kitchen, at least. I bet Vic is already planning all the meals he’s gonna make in here,” Ransom teases.
“And deciding which cabinets I’m going to claim before the two of you can destroy them,” Vic mutters back, making me grin.
In the living room, a long leather couch takes up most of the space. There’s a thick white rug under the glass-topped coffee table, and the couch is pointed toward a massive flat screen TV built into the wall.
We walk the whole place together, checking it out and poking our heads into each room. There are two bathrooms, both fully decked out with elaborate showers and double sinks. One has a huge tub as well, sitting right under the window that runs the length of the wall. There are four bedrooms—three normal sized, and one massive one, which one of the bathrooms is attached to.
Once we’ve done a sweep of the whole place, the guys split up, each of them taking a section.
There aren’t a lot of Troy’s personal belongings here, making it clear that he truly didn’t spend a lot of time living here. It’s a relief knowing this isn’t a place where we’re going to have to deal with lingering traces of him, and the guys take it one step further, even.
They go around with big garbage bags, filling them up with everything that was Troy’s personally. His clothes from the closet and dresser, his toiletries, anything that could remind me of him.
“It’s your place now,” Malice says as he passes by with another full bag. “His shit can go in the fucking dumpster.”
I smile softly, grateful to them for this. I don’t want reminders of Troy here. Not when I have enough of those in my head already. At least this isn’t a place Troy ever held me captive, so there are no horrible memories like that.
“We’re trashing the bed,” Ransom says when the guys are done taking stuff down to the dumpster behind the building, not trusting the trash chute. “You should get the big bedroom, angel. Since it’s your place now.”
“Where are you guys going to sleep?” I ask, glancing at them.
“There are enough other rooms for us. And you shouldn’t have to sleep in a bed that fucker ever touched.”
I chew on my lip, not sure how to pose what I want to say. But luckily, Vic speaks up before I have to figure it out.
“I already said I don’t want to have to sleep apart from Willow,” he says, shaking his head. “We’ve played the game of picking and choosing who gets to sleep with her on a given night long enough.”
“What are you suggesting then?” Ransom asks.
“One big bed,” Malice answers, speaking for his brother. “Big enough for all of us.” He glances at me. “If that’s okay with you.”
I nod, a broad smile blooming on my face. “Yeah. I love that. I like the idea of having you all close. Can you guys handle having to sleep in the bed together?”
Vic shrugs, his blue eyes meeting mine. “Malice snores, and Ransom is a clinger, but it won’t be the worst thing in the world.”
“I don’t fucking snore,” Malice shoots back.
“Yes, you do,” Ransom and Vic say in unison.
“And sometimes you even talk in your sleep,” Ransom adds. “Usually, it’s threats.”
“I’m gonna threaten you in a minute,” Malice mutters under his breath. “We have shit to do.”
Ransom’s still laughing as we head out of the penthouse and back down to the car. Now that we’re going to live here, the place needs to be stocked with stuff. The guys lost most of their shit between their warehouse burning down and fleeing to Mexico, and pretty much all of my stuff is gone too. So it’s a good excuse to go shopping.
With a pang, I remember going shopping with Olivia, back when I thought she was going to be something good in my life. I remember her encouraging me to get the finer things, talking me out of cheap sheets and bad furniture.
But I push that away. This is different.
For one, the guys make it a lot more fun. They bicker between themselves as we walk around store after store, picking things out. Vic buys all new kitchen stuff, delighted with the idea of arranging things to his liking and starting fresh in a kitchen he can make his own.
We get a new bed and frame, a massive California King that will have to be delivered. Picking out sheets for it is another journey, with Vic lecturing us about how thread counts don’t really mean anything.
“Feel that,” he says, holding out a package of sheets to me. I rub my fingers over the ones on top and make a face at how rough they are.
“I hate those,” I tell him.
“Those are supposedly high thread count, Egyptian cotton sheets. They cost more than a cheap mattress.”
