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“Sure.”
I watch her look through the contents of my suitcase. Two suits—one gray, another navy—socks, boxer briefs, undershirts, and a pair of flannel pajamas that was all I could find in the way of sleepwear. Hannah hones in on the last item.
“What are these?”
“Pajamas.”
“You sleep in these?” she sounds amused.
“I’ve never worn them,” I admit.
“What do you usually wear?”
I’m not sure if the truth is an appropriate answer to give a woman I hardly know, but I’ve basically left caution back in New York. Since I landed in Los Angeles, I’ve shed my careful, restrained inclinations.
“Nothing. I sleep naked.”
At least the truth has the satisfying outcome of realizing I can affect Hannah. She hasn’t looked at me with anything close to desire since she found that piece of paper in the hotel room. And since I’m wildly attracted toher, it’s nice to see a flush spreading across the small section of her cheek I can see.
She clears her throat—twice—which I’ve noticed is a nervous tell of hers. After zipping my suitcase up, she stands, glancing at me with her former mask back in place. “You should lose the tie and jacket, at least.”
I loosen my tie and then shrug my jacket off, holding eye contact with Hannah the whole time. This time, I can see the changes to her whole face. The way she bites her bottom lip and how her eyes look even bluer when they’re totally focused on me.
After tossing my jacket and tie over the arm of her couch, I take off my cufflinks and roll up the sleeves of my white button-down. Her throat bobs with a swallow before she looks away, walking toward the dish by the door where she left her keys without saying anything else. I take that to mean she approves.
It feels domestic, leaving her house together. My dating history has never included anything like this. All of the women I’ve dated were part of families I already knew. A big, official introduction like this never took place. And this is especially strange, since I’m going into it expecting to never see these people again. Intentionally striving for an imperfect impression.
“Anything else I should know?” I ask Hannah as we drive.
“Nope, I think we covered everything.”
“What about your job?”
She’s focused on the road, but her hands tighten on the steering wheel, the knuckles paling in contrast to her skin. “Whatabout my job?”
“Well, that’s basically the one thing wediddiscuss before we got married.”
“They don’t know how I feel.”
There’s a warning note in her voice, so I don’t push. We ride in silence, until she pulls into a circular driveway and parks.
The house we pull up in front of a half an hour later isn’t as large as I’m expecting. It’s a beautiful home, welcoming and well-maintained. But after reading the report I received from the private investigator I hired—which included a rough estimate of Hannah’s father’s wealth—I know they could be living in a place five times this size.
“This is where you grew up?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
I’ve already known the answers to most of the questions I’ve asked her today, which is probably why I told her about Candace. It felt fair to bare something of myself after secretly invading her privacy that way.
Hannah’s fingers tap the steering wheel.
“Yep.” That’s all she says before climbing out of the car.
Silently, we walk up the path of gray stones that leads to a porch covered by a trellis dripping with verdure.
The front door opens before we’ve even reached it, revealing a smiling blonde woman.
Hannah shakes her head. “Were you seriously watching out the window, Mom?”
“Rachel was,” Hannah’s mom replies.
