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“Pervert,” I mutter.
“Grr.”
Straightening, I shake my head and walk into the hall, looking for the troublesome woman. She’s not there—something that’s easy to see because the doors are all open and the rooms are all empty.
“Did you get your furniture repossessed or something?” she asks when I clear the hall, finding her standing in the center of my living room, arms akimbo, body slowly rotating as she surveys the space.
I did the same thing when this room was still a shell—all two-by-fours and rafters and exposed plywood.
Huge with lofted ceilings.
No sheetrock or insulation on the walls.
No electricity or lights or stone on the fireplace.
I just stood on the naked wood floor and looked up.
Sitting in the knowledge that this is more space than I ever dreamed of having in my name, let alone in my house, in oneroom.
But it’s mine, and I’ve worked my ass off for it.
Even if there isn’t any furniture filling the space.
So, I don’t tell her and those judgy eyebrows that construction finished on this place all of a couple weeks ago, that I haven’t yet had time to go furniture shopping because I was on the road with the team, and that while I might have shelled out big money for this house and all the expensive finishes and fancy perks inside, the designer can fuck off with her twenty-five-thousand dollar couch and rugs that are costly enough to fund a small country.
The reason Ihavemoney is because I don’t drop it on shit like twenty-five-thousand-dollar couches and rugs that make my eyes water when I look at the price.
I don’t tell Nova any of that.
“Your dog’s a pervert,” I say instead, marching by her and back into the kitchen, starting to sort through the groceries, putting the refrigerated and frozen stuff away, then shoving the rest onto empty shelves in the pantry, both of which are mostly stocked up, with the exception of the boxes of some staples like cereal and pasta and Twix I find space for. And not a bag of those small, pathetic fun-sized ones either, but a full box I grabbed from the checkout line because I might run out of cereal and milk and pasta, but I sure as shit am not going to run out of Twix.
I shove a bag of brown rice next to my stash then go back out into the kitchen, stopping when I spy the rest of the bags unpacked, my canvas shopping totes folded and nicely stacked, the rest of the items grouped by type.
Efficient.
Much better than me just grabbing shit and shoving it onto the shelves, and yeah, I’m talking to you, brown rice.
But I don’t say anything, just ignore Nova standing there, and snag some basics I’m not too much of a bachelor to have picked up, and disappear back into the pantry.
She’s still standing there, albeit not looking at me—eyes trained on the microwave, of all things—when I return for my third and then my fourth (and final) trip to fill up the shelves in the pantry.
And by fill up, I mean fill up all of three whole shelves.
Sighing, I flick off the light, wondering how much food it will actually take to make the space look lived in.
More than I can eat on my own, that’s for certain.
If my mom got a single glimpse of how empty my pantry is, she would brave the storm and buy out the local grocery store and my shelves would bepacked. I would be able to survive a hundred Snowmageddons if she was stocking my kitchen.
But she isn’t.
Same as she isn’t buying my furniture—something that’s a good thing because it wouldn’t stop at furniture. The shelves on either side of my kickass fireplace would be loaded with trinkets and tchotchkes, an explosion of crap and belongings as messy as her life, her marriage, her relationships.
I love her—sheismy mom—but I don’t want that shit in my life.
Nova pushes a button on the microwave.
I hear a soft beep and the drawer slides open.
