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I know myself well enough to know that I’ll never be able to go back to bed if I’m this hungry.
After washing my hands, I slowly turn the knob and open the door back into the bedroom.
It’s hard to tell with the limited lighting, but the room is gorgeous.
From the outside, the house is a classic, rustic log cabin. But on the inside, it’s modern and clean and looks like something from the Parade of Homes.
Axel’s bedroom is painted in different shades of navy blue and grays, the deep colors complimenting each other in a calming way. And his king-sized platform bed is the perfect blend of minimal and inviting.
There are no dressers in the room because all his clothes are hidden away in a massive walk-in closet.
I move there now, looking for a pair of socks to pull on over my bare feet.
Axel brought me in here earlier – giving me a pair of boxers and an old band t-shirt to wear, that hangs down nearly to my knees – and I saw the sock drawer, so I know where to look. I don’t think he’d mind me digging around, but I’m glad I don’t have to.
Like everything else, his socks look ridiculous on me. But I yank the white cotton up my calves, wanting the comfort and warmth.
Snagging my phone off the nightstand, I tiptoe out of the room, leaving the door slightly ajar, and make my way towards the stairs.
Axel’s room takes up most of the top floor, but there’s another room up here that’s half done – with swatches of paint on the walls and a small counter with a sink in the back corner. I think he said something about it eventually becoming a bar but by the time we got upstairs, my thoughts were thoroughly focused elsewhere.
I put my hand on the railing, taking the stairs slowly, since the hallway is darker than I thought it’d be. But when I make it to the main level, the moonlight once again lights my way.
I thought it once. And I’m thinking it again.
This house is seriously my dream.
Big windows. Comfy furniture. Open floor plan. And a modern kitchen with an island big enough to feed a football team.
There are a few other rooms on this floor. An office. Another one and half bathrooms. A guest room. And a door that leads to the basement, which apparently houses Brian’s room, yet another bathroom, a workout room, and a tv room. I took Axel’s word on all of that, because going downstairs seemed a little too intrusive as it’s his son’s domain.
And as much as I could wander through this house for hours, I’m only interested in one part right now. The kitchen.
I glance at the clock on the stove and see that it’s just after 2:00am. The perfect time for some breakfast.
When we’d made dinner earlier, I nosed around in his fridge, so I know Axel has the stuff to make a pretty good omelet.
Flipping on the dim under-cabinetry lighting, I make quick work of finding what I need.
Tapping the tips of my fingers on each item – eggs, two types of cheese, tomatoes, thick sliced ham, butter – I line everything up on the counter.
Perfect.
I bend down, my back to the stove, as I pull open cupboard doors in the island until I reveal the pans. “Ah, ha!”
Grabbing the handle of the one I want, I try to carefully remove it, but send a lid clattering against a pot.
As I reach out to slap a hand over the rattling lid, I swear I hear the sound of a door closing.
My head pops up, and I look towards the stairs, but I don’t see or hear anything.
Shaking my head at myself, I grasp the handle of the pan I wanted and straighten up to standing.
And that’s when I hear footsteps. Expect they aren’t coming down the stairs. They’re coming towards me from the other side of the living area. The direction of the garage.
They always talk aboutfight or flightbut you rarely hear about the third option. The one my body automatically does.Freeze.
Maybe it’s nothing.
