9
At first, the ride to Anders’s place is bearable. But as time passes and we get closer to our destination, the air between us thickens into something like syrup—sweet, but hard to swallow an even breath.
The road to his house winds through hundreds of trees arching over the pavement like the top halves of hearts.
It eventually spits us out into a wider clearing where the trees are taller, their branches too high to feel enveloping, and his house is tucked between thick bushes.
Several warm lights glow from tiny old-school lanterns hung along the porch beams.
We get out at the same time, Anders heading to the back to grab my suitcases. He rolls his sleeves up and pulls them out. He doesn’t even glance at my outstretched hand.
“Come,” Anders says, gaze flicking from my face to the porch and back. “I’ll give you the tour.”
I follow him up the steps, my nerves doing cartwheels in the pit of my stomach.
He leads me past shiny wood floors and richly colored details—dark golds and greens against lighter woods.
The ceilings are high, or maybe they just seem that way from all the books stacked in every corner, on every surface—the tables, the counter—even used as coasters for an unfinished wineglass on the coffee table.
Not messy. Warm, comfortable, and attractively well maintained.
My mom always said that the way a man treats his home, his sanctuary, speaks volumes about how he’ll end up treating you. But then again, she married my dad, who was the best guy around but could not fold a sheet for the life of him, and she loved him all the same.
To the left, at the end of the entry hallway, is a kitchen with dark cabinets and more books. To the right, the living room, with an oversized tan sectional and two blankets tossed over the back. Candles sit on books atop the side tables.
“Anything in the fridge is yours,” Anders says, brushing past me. “Any room you want to hang out in—yours.”
I press my hand on the couch, and the cushion is as soft as it looks. “And if I wanted to snoop in your room?”
“I’ll leave the door open.”
The cartwheels in my stomach upgrade to backflips.
Anders leads me farther into the house, pushing open a door in another hallway.
A king-size bed sits at the center, cushioned with several pillows and a pale blue comforter so plush I have to physically stop myself from face-planting into it. There’s a little desk in the corner, another softly glowing light—all the lights are warm and golden here, no LEDs.
It’s simple and intimate, and being in the space with Anders as he places my suitcase by the bed makes my heart trip over itself.
“This is so cozy,” I say, scanning the room, trying not to notice how it still smells like him—sandalwood and citrus and warmth. A combination that only makes sense against Anders’s skin.
Anders leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “I like cozy. Not a fan of extra space with nothing in it.”
“Did you do all the decorating yourself?”
“Yes,” he says. Then, hesitantly, “Do you like it?”
I roll my eyes. “Of course I do, and of course you did. You have great taste. Do you have any flaws?”
“I can’t parallel park.”
I bark out a laugh and drop down on the bed, bouncing lightly on the mattress. “Tragic.”
He smirks, then pushes off the doorframe and nods toward the kitchen. “Wine? Water? Do you need some time to settle in?”
The way he says wine—low, intimate, like a secret, delicately wrapped gift—makes my mouth go dry.
“Water.” Better to keep my head on straight, especially with how my body heats the more time Anders and I spend in this room together.
He returns with two glasses, one dark, one transparent. He hands me the water, his knuckles brushing mine when I take it, and the heat burns through me, like a rubber band was pulled tight and snapped across the skin he touched.
“Okay,” I say, trying to pretend I’m a normal, sane, not-at-all-horny woman. “I have some general ideas for interfering with the wedding, but I need to gather my thoughts, get more info, get on Valerie’s good side.”
He doesn’t sit right away. He watches me for a moment, sipping his wine, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Then he walks over and takes the spot beside me.
“Let’s hear those wedding types again,” he says. “Lust, Trust, and Rust?”
“Right,” I confirm. “Valerie’s feels like a cross between lust and delusion. She met John during a rebound spiral and thinks the universe gave her a gift-wrapped husband.”
“And she’s big on signs,” Anders adds. “Which is why you brought up the psychic. You don’t actually know a psychic, do you?”
“No, of course not,” I say, “but it’s a good play to plan.”
He sighs. “I feel a little guilty about this,” he admits, “but I’m willing to feel anything if it means helping Val make the right choice about her future. I want her to be happy. And I don’t think John can do that. Not forever.”
“Well,” I say, “then I’ll do my job.”
“You’re more than just the job,” he says, so quietly I almost miss it.
But I hear it. And, unfortunately, so does my heart.
I shift in my seat. “You’re paying me to be here, Anders.”
“I know.”
There’s a silence between us, charged and buzzing like static on skin. The kind that makes your body restless no matter how much you move. A constant thrum of nerves and heat.
He’s too close.
The room is too quiet.
And it’s been too damn long since I’ve been this attracted to someone—just his brushing my skin for half a second shoots arrows of heat and awareness between my thighs.
I jump to my feet. Don’t be an idiot. This is a job—he is your boss. Pull it together. “I’m so tired. I have to get ready for bed before I pass out mid-conversation.”
Anders doesn’t press. He nods, then moves toward the door. He pauses there, one hand on the knob, the other in his pocket.
“If you need anything, get it. Or let me know, and I’ll get it for you.”
“Okay,” I say.
Our eyes lock for a heartbeat too long.
“Okay,” he repeats, breaking the spell.
Then he shuts the door, and I drop backward onto the bed, slapping a hand over my mouth, my pulse hammering in my throat.
Already, I’m getting lost in Anders’s gaze, his warm words, his easy way—enough that it’s becoming a distraction from my actual purpose here.
And it’s only the first night.