Chapter 38
S CARLETT
It takes us about fifteen minutes to exit the last town where we have shopped for food and head into a wooded area before reaching a clearing and noticing big houses on both sides of the road.
The lights become dimmer, and the land plots larger before we roll closer to one of the biggest, darkest houses visible from the road.
Not for a second do I believe it’s our destination, although there aren’t any other houses left.
Unless a secondary road can take us to a different area, this is it. This must be the place we’re going to.
It’s so damn strange that I flick my eyes to the man next to me. He seems unfazed by my stare or how spooky the place is.
“What is this?” I ask.
“This is my house.”
His answer is dry as if he’s talking about something unpleasant. Looking at the house, I can see why, but still, this is his place.
I move my focus to the building.
It’s a historic house that looks like a museum.
One of those iconic houses you pay a fee to visit. A piece of history with period wallpapers, creaking stairs, and old furniture. A mausoleum.
“You’re not living here…” I murmur incredulously.
He pulls our ride to a stop in the well-maintained round driveway. At least there’s that. And then he shifts his eyes to me.
“You can’t be living here,” I say, the place we spent time in Florida coming to mind.
That was his brother’s house. He didn’t live there. Okay. I get that.
But, this is his house?
I, honestly, don’t think he lives here. Maybe he stops by occasionally
Maybe he wants me to scream for help.
“I don’t think so…” I murmur.
My voice trails off.
“You don’t like it?”
Irony drips through his voice.
“I don’t imagine anyone living here.”
My words suddenly make him pensive.
He moves his eyes to the place in front of us.
The only light glowing over the dark walls is the moonlight streaming through the clouds.
It’s a two-story house with an impressive entrance and a few steps leading to the massive doors.
The place hasn’t been decorated for the holidays, and nothing about it is welcoming.
It’s dead and has no soul, and after spending these days with him in Florida, it’s so not him.
I can see why he ran away from it, but why would he bring me here?
“This is…”
He stops, his jaw tense, his eyes emptied of emotions.
“This house was part of my family estate, and I inherited it when my parents died.”
Breathlessly, I’m waiting for him to continue.
“Have you ever considered living in it?”
I sound dead serious, but there’s a warm note of humor in it.
“I have my stuff in it,” he says.
“Have you and your…?”
He moves his eyes to me.
“She didn’t live in it.”
“I see.”
I pull back, not willing to continue.
His eyes linger on me.
“Honestly, I didn’t know what to do with it. It belonged to my family for over a century…” he says quietly before moving his stare at the monstrosity in front of us.
I’m sure it could look different with a couple of Christmas trees, some lampposts, and light strings dangling from the eaves and stretching across the window sills.
Lit rooms would probably make it look alive.
I don’t know how it looks inside, but something tells me it doesn’t have a warm, cozy interior.
It would help if he had fireplaces and modern furniture. Freshly painted walls and no clutter.
I hate clutter, but it’s not my place.
I’m only a guest.
“And I kept it. It kind of fits my mood,” he says with a dark smile. “I didn’t mind it. And no one had asked to come visit me for sure,” he adds with dark humor.
“Thank God for that.”
I roll my eyes.
He laughs.
“I’m sure you’ll survive spending the night here with me,” he comments in a lighter tone.
“Of course I will. I hope there are no ghosts.”
“No ghosts. They packed their things and left.”
In a better mood, we climb out of his truck.
He grabs a couple of grocery bags while I carry the cake we bought from the bakery.
The snow crunches under our boots, and our breaths look like billowing white steam.
“It’s cold,” I say, walking next to him.
“The ocean is not far from here. It’s not that bad inside, though,” he assures me as we reach the entrance.
The place has a secured entrance, and looking up, I notice the green light dots of a few security cameras.
He enters a code, and the door clicks open.
It’s like the door to a prison cell.
“Let me go in first,” he says, and the lights come on when he flips a switch.
“Come on in,” he says, pulling the door wide open.
I peek inside first before straightening and stepping over the threshold.
The inside is not that bad and looks better than the exterior. Nice wooden floors and stairs with carved railings that lead upstairs.
The foyer has marble floors and opens in the kitchen.
I gesture in that direction.
“We’re going there?”
“Yes.”
I’m about to take my boots off.
“You don’t need to.”
“I don’t like walking like that in a house.”
He freezes in the middle of the foyer.
“Okay. Then, wait a minute. I’ll bring the luggage so you can change.”
“Sounds good.”
He leaves the groceries on a table by the wall, and I stay put, waiting for him and moving my eyes around his house.
It’s not a bad place. It’s just that there’s no life in it. The temperature is pleasant, and to satisfy my curiosity, I lean back to peek inside the room to my right.
It looks like a reading room.
That’s what I would do in there.
A nice sofa lines the wall. There’s also a bookcase and some shelves.
Nothing ridiculously bohemian, but it has a certain bohemian feel.
To me, it looks like he went around the house and got rid of pretty much anything he deemed unnecessary, which gave this place a basic makeover. The walls are cream, the furniture is dark, and the upholstery is done in a dark amber color.
I see no decorative accents. No vases, framed photos, throws, or colorful pillows.
Sheer curtains frame the windows, and a rug lies in the middle.
I take a step back to see more of it.
Oh, there is a fireplace. The mantel is clean, except for a long candle tucked into a golden holder.
Nice.
I see myself in a room like this, reading or planning my lessons.
The door opens again, and I flick upright.
He flashes a smile.
“You can move around,” he comments.
“I’ve already left marks on the floor,” I say, pointing to my boots.
“Don’t worry about it.”
He leaves the luggage down, closes the door, and riffles through the contents of my travel bag.
He pulls out my slippers.
“Would that work for you?”
“Yes.”
I remove my boots and put on my slippers.
I already feel much better.
“I need something to clean that up.”
“I’ll do it.”
He takes his boots off and grabs the bags before flicking his head toward the room upstairs.
“I’ll show you the bedroom first so you can get settled.”
The stairs don’t creak, which is nice, but the more we climb, the dimmer the space becomes.
“I never wanted bright lights in here,” he says as we walk down a long corridor.
It’s lit, just not brightly lit.
“You sleep in one of these rooms?”
“All the time.”
“And you like it?”
“I don’t care.”
He pushes the door to the bedroom open, and a large space fills my view.
“Okay…” I murmur.
The walls are slightly darker than downstairs. Painted in dove gray, I think, or faint blue, maybe?
The furnishings are nothing extravagant.
A large bed, perfect sheets, and nice looking pillows.
It looks like a hotel bed, and it’s probably because he has a housekeeper.
“This is the walk-in closet,” he says, placing the luggage inside. “There’s room for both of us.”
I glance inside and notice a large space with shelves, drawers, hangers, and racks. One side is packed with suits, professionally pressed shirts, and shoe boxes.
“There it is,” he says.
I look at the opposite side.
“It’s more than enough.”
“All right.”
He moves to the bathroom, and I follow him closely.
“You have everything you need inside.”
He points to the mirror and vanity cabinets.
There’s not a drop of water in the bathroom, and everything is in order like no one has taken a bath in here in ages.
I say nothing.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’ll change and be downstairs in a moment.”
“You do that,” he says before walking into the closet, grabbing some clothes, and heading out.
A few minutes later, I’m alone in the room, inspecting everything with curiosity as if I’m at the crime scene.
SCARLETT
One of the few things I do well is lighting a real fire in a wooden burning fireplace.
I just couldn’t help it. The logs were there. The kindling was there. And the matches were there too.
It smells like smoke for the first few seconds before warmth oozes from the flames, light dancing on the walls enlivening the room.
Satisfied, I look at the fire, my hands hovering over it, absorbing the heat.
I love the sound of crackling fire.
Wearing my sweatpants and a long-sleeved top, and my hair pulled back into a bun, I spin around and jump back as if struck by lightning.
“Oh. You scared me,” I say, partly laughing, mostly panting. “I didn’t hear you walk in.”
A smile sits on his face, his eyebrow tilted.
“What did you do?”
I turn around, and gesturing at the fire, I explain to him how I lighted a fire, getting into all sorts of details like a silly girl seeking approval.
“Come here,” he says seriously, a smile barely clinging to his lips.
I’m completely thrown off by his demand and totally taken by surprise when he snakes his arm around me, and his lips crash onto mine with deep passion–– his answer.
I fall against his chest, my arms looped around his neck, my lips burning under his.
A kernel of emotion blends into the mix of heat and pleasure, and I want it to never end, but he breaks the kiss eventually, and his hand locks mine.
“Maybe we should get dinner first,” he says, wearing comfortable clothes as well.
Minutes later, he shows me around the kitchen, and I pull the things we bought from the fridge before inviting him to sit behind the counter and watch me cook.