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“What the hell?” I rotate in a circle, examining the domed glass ceiling that gives a perfect view of the starry night sky. “How the heck did you guys even find this place? And get the fathers’ approvals?”
Because this isn’t the sort of place they’d approve of, not with its antique ambiance, vintage décor, and lack of modernization.
“It took a lot of persuading,” Reece explains as he straightens. His skin is still pallid, but his breathing has evened out. “And most of that was done by Ryder.”
I look at Ryder as he walks off the elevator, pocketing his phone. Why would he do this? This place isn’t his style? It’s mine, and he knows that, but that doesn’t answer my questions.
Ryder starts undoing the buttons on the sleeve of his shirt. “Do you two want to show her around? I need to attend to a few things before I can attempt to relax for a few hours.” He barely meets my gaze as he whisks past me.
I think he’s pissed off about what went down in the limo. He can be pissed all he wants. I’ll match it. Although, a tiny part of me is struggling to grasp onto that anger, because of the idea that he may have picked this place based on what he knew I liked.
What the hell is going on?
I need answers.
Ryder pushes through a set of glass doors before I can ask.
Blaise steps up beside me and, with his arm curled around my waist, says, “If you think this spot is pretty, wait until you see the rest of the place.” He smiles with hope in his eyes as he offers me his hand for like the dozenth time tonight.
While I’ve rejected it nearly every time, I opt to be nice for the moment since he let me cry all over his shirt.
As I place my hand in his, a full smile spreads across his handsome face. Then he pulls me toward the doors, pushing them open as we reach them.
On the other side is a massive, high-ceiling room where more bookshelves line the walls. A balcony wraps around the second-floor section, and even more bookshelves are visible up there.
“Why are there so many bookshelves?” I ask, unable to conceal my excitement.
“Because you like books,” Blaise explains like it’s obvious.
“Plus, it’ll save us a shit ton of trips to the library.” Reece moves up beside me and runs his fingers through his hair. “Remember that one summer when she literally spent like three weeks there?” He directs this question to Blaise.
“You guys did, too,” I respond.
“Only because you were there,” Reece stresses while undoing the top button of his shirt. “Trust me; we’d way rather have been hanging out at the courts.”
“Then why didn’t you say anything?” I wonder.
“Because we’d way rather have been hanging out with you.” He grazes his fingers under my chin before walking toward the middle of the room and leaving my heart spasming.
Blaise settles a hand on my lower back and urges me forward. “Come on; I’ll show you the rest of the place.”
My dress swishes as I inch farther into the room toward a series of velvet, maroon chairs. A television has been mounted on the wall, and in the farthest corner is a bar area, barstools and shelves that are covered with various types of alcohol. Just beside that is a spiral stairway, and that’s where the three of us head.
It occurs to me then that I have no clue what the sleeping arrangement will be. Do I have to sleep in their room? Is there just one big bedroom? Or …
“Do I get my own room?” I ask as we arrive at the second floor.
“Of course,” Blaise replies, and my shoulders relax. “Your mom sent over a little bit of stuff, and she’s supposed to be sending the rest tomorrow.”
“Awesome … I mean, about getting my own bedroom,” I say way too cheerfully, causing Reece to toss me a smirk.
“That wasn’t my first choice. I was pushing for a communal bedroom.” He winks at me, and I roll my eyes as we veer down a hallway lined with shut doors. He spins around, walking backward in front of me. “You know, I’m sure you think that eye roll is snarky—and it is—but I’m just grateful you’re talking to us again, and not yelling.”
“You deserve it.” My gaze roves over the black-paneled ceilings and the golden-kissed wallpaper covering the upper section of the walls.
“I know,” he agrees, grinding to a stop so suddenly I almost run into him. Before I can step back, he snags my hand and places my palm against his chest. “You can yell at me all you want, and I’ll take every ounce of it, but I really, really fucking hope that one day we can be friends again.”
Friends. Not husband and wife. His choice of words is oddly touching in ways that make me squirmy.
