Chapter 5 #2
Steering clear of the front door, I unlock the fence at the side of the house and slip around the back. The place is even more intimidating up close, like it’ll grow teeth and swallow me whole, forever ensnared in Leo’s web.
Beyond investigating the exterior for any cameras or a security system, I haven’t dared to go inside the house.
I’ve been slowly building the courage to do this.
I talked myself out of it when Leo left for his away games, using the excuse that one of his friends might turn up at the house to check on it.
I’m not allowed to chicken out. I’ve already apportioned time and energy for it in my schedule; not going through with it is going to send the rest of my day into limbo.
When it’s pouring this bad, no one else will be outside.
There’s not a soul gardening or going for a run.
No retirees staring out the window to people watch.
No mom is enjoying this slice of suburbia because everyone will be inside, enjoying their in-floor heating and artificial light.
Besides, all the rain droplets cascading down their window will turn me into a trick of the eye.
The constant movement of water will make the world seem less still; sudden movements won’t capture anyone’s attention.
At least that’s what someone on Reddit said.
The back door is predictably locked. Shivering, I eye the rocks in the garden, searching for the most break-in appropriate stone.
I need to see how this man lives. Need to know what color his duvet is, and whether he’s the type of person who sleeps with a top sheet.
Leo could have priceless artworks on the wall, or maybe his house is decorated with sporting paraphernalia.
What if he’s a family man and has framed pictures of the holidays he’s had with his grandparents?
Or if he’s secretly a nerd who’s into Star Wars and dabbles in Old School RuneScape.
What kinds of food does he keep in the pantry? Is he the type of person to keep a separate drinks fridge? Maybe his place is like every other guy his age, where he uses three-in-one and has the bare minimum of everything because home is just a place to rest his head?
I have to know what makes him tick. Leave traces of myself in his space so he can get familiar with me in more ways than one.
Moving from window to window, I jimmy my fingers beneath the edges of the frame, hoping one will open. None gives way until I reach the last one. That’s when one of the gods out there hears my prayers because I stumble back, not expecting it to give way.
Wait.
It actually opened?
What the fuck? No way.
Who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth? I hoist it open wide enough for me to fit through.
A smile spreads across my lips. Just as I thought. This was always meant to be.
Fate.
Gripping onto the edge of the window, I summon every ounce of strength I have to haul myself up and into the spare bedroom. The feat proves nearly impossible. There isn’t an athletic bone in my body, and, man, do I wish that I’d have gone to the gym at least once or twice.
Something in my back twinges. Baby Satan roundhouse kicks my intestines and follows it up with a swift heel drive into my bladder.
My muscles quiver from the exertion of my multiple attempts, and the real nail in the coffin comes when my ribs scrape against the sharp edge of the windowsill. That’s going to leave a bruise.
I land face-first on the floor with a violent thud that could pass off as thunder. The air rushes from my lungs, and for a couple seconds I just lie there, nose shoved into the plush carpet, boots against the wall, organs caving in on themselves.
Note to self: bring a step stool next time.
Groaning and cursing up a storm, I drag myself up onto unsteady feet and survey the room.
There’s just enough light slipping through the window to illuminate the queen bed, two bedside drawers, and an antique painting that doesn’t match the rest of the modern exterior.
Other than that, there’s nothing to give the place any type of life.
Well, that was anticlimactic.
Not wanting to stain the carpet, I toe my boots off and leave them in front of the now-closed window.
I edge toward the door and inch it open. Tension wraps around my shoulders as I pray it doesn’t creak.
Maybe I should try to find religion, because I must have gotten into some higher power’s good books if the hinges are soundless.
Two miracles in one day—either fate is on my side, or Leo has a real issue with home security.
Nevertheless, it’s good to know that I won’t be needing to invest in CRC anytime soon.
I poke my head out of the room and go stock-still.
Jesus, fuck.
Whatever boring photo I saw on the realtor’s website most definitely wasn’t of his lounge—Leo’s renovated the place into my dream house. It’s like I’m stepping foot into my own Pinterest board.
The living room opens into the kitchen. A big arched doorway separates the two spaces to give it an antique touch.
Classical molding lines the edges of the walls and around the chandeliers on the ceiling.
A moss-green couch sits in front of the Persian rug atop a plush carpet.
The mossy green shifts into a rich forest color as it reaches the kitchen that has brass-hardware accents and a wooden counter that’s a couple shades lighter than the floor.
What a coincidence—green happens to be my second-favorite color.
And I was right. Leo has in-floor heating. Warmth is radiating through my socks.
My nose twitches when I inhale. Leo has lived here for a couple years, but somehow it still has that new-home scent of sawdust, paint, and chemicals. Above it are notes of cinnamon and oak—something about it seems familiar, but I can’t put a finger on it.
Like a man after my own heart, Leo has vintage posters and vinyl CDs covering the walls—there’s even an old-school camcorder and disposable cameras on the table. By the time I reach the second living area, I’m just about ready to drive over to the stadium and propose to him.
A library.
The new-book smell wafts into my nose. I want to check out every book he has on the floor-to-ceiling shelves and sink into the big reading chair in the corner.
None of this was in the property listing from two years ago. Honestly, I think those are the same cushions on my Pinterest board. Like-minded doesn’t begin to cover what we are.
Excitement thrums through my veins. I’ve long forgotten the anxiety I felt leading up to this adventure. I pad upstairs, shedding my wet jacket and jeans, inspecting everything I pass. He has an indoor gym, a game room, and another spare room.
I try the handle of the only door that’s closed and frown. Why is his office locked? Now that I think about it, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen the curtains open for this room.
Whatever. It’ll probably be unlocked the next time I let myself in.
Trepidation seizes me as I close in on the star of the show: the main bedroom. I drop my clothes beside the door and stand there, taking in everything that consists of him.
Holy Mother Mary. It’s perfect.
Something otherworldly crawls beneath my skin and takes over.
I’m helpless to fight it. Truthfully, I don’t think I want to because one by one, I strip off articles of clothing until I’m in nothing but my bra and underwear.
My knees sink into the plum-colored goose-down duvet, the mattress dipping under my weight as I lower my body onto the made bed.
Biting back my giggle, I roll around, reveling in the feel of the soft fabric against my skin. I usually hate sleeping in cotton sheets, but there’s a perfect balance of buttery silk and coarseness that makes these enjoyable.
Slipping my legs beneath the covers, I run my fingers over the fabric. I can see it: waking up every morning to the sight of him. Tangling our legs together as we talk about our day. Having breakfast in bed every Sunday. Reading together just before we sleep.
Every time I close my eyes, I see him. It’s consuming my soul, and I wish I could tear it out of me and go back to the person I was before he became all I could see.
God, I can still remember the first time I saw him like it was yesterday.
For some reason the algorithm decided I was into sports, but the second the video played, I was enraptured. After that, my entire afternoon was spent looking up everything there was to know about him. Now, here we are.
Just hours ago, he was in this very bed.
If I concentrate hard enough, I can feel Leo’s warmth lingering within the threads.
I rub my face against the pillow, breathing in cinnamon and oak and hoping that it clings to my hair and coats the inside of my lungs.
If I could bottle the smell of him, I would.
Now that’s an idea.
My eyes snap open, and I’m in the connecting bathroom in a matter of seconds, laughing like an excited schoolgirl. I don’t bother with my gloves as I grab his cologne and the spare bottles of his body wash from beneath his sink.
I practically skip to his walk-in closet and explore some more, touching every piece of clothing I pass. I reach for the first shirt I find and pull it on, and I don’t stop until I’m drowning in his hoodie and sweatpants.
The material is just right. It’s not too scratchy or too soft that it feels like a cotton pad. There’s little to no pilling on the material, so I can hold it to my face without feeling like I’m starring in Princess and the Pea.
Everything smells like him. Everything screams him—no, it screams us. This is the start of our future. We like the same things. We fit like two puzzle pieces. We’re destined for each other.
He’ll realize it soon enough.