Chapter 1 #2
"This is the bathroom," I say, pushing open the door.
"We share everything except, obviously, our personal stuff.
I labeled the cabinets under the sink—the left side is yours.
The right side is mine. I also put a shelf organizer up so we don't knock each other's toothbrushes together, because that feels like a level of intimacy I'm not ready for. "
His shoulders shake once. A silent laugh? I don't look at him because I'm fragile, and his amused face might finish me.
"Laundry is in that closet," I continue, pointing. "Washer, dryer, detergent on the top shelf. Feel free to do laundry whenever. Quiet hours are midnight to ten a.m., so maybe not then unless it's an emergency and you need clean socks."
"Got it," he says. "No late-night sock emergencies."
I blink. "Was that…a joke?"
"Maybe."
Oh no. He's funny. Or at least capable of humor. That's so much worse than if he'd been a silent, brooding statue.
We move into the small living room. I've done what I can with it—a secondhand couch covered in a cheerful throw, mismatched pillows, a thrift-store coffee table with a refinished top, a TV mounted on the wall.
One corner holds a tall bookshelf crammed with novels, cookbooks, and gardening guides.
A basket of yarn and half-finished scarves sits on the floor because apparently I also stress-knit.
He takes it in, gaze lingering on the bookshelf.
"And this is the kitchen." I lead him through the archway. "Gas stove, full fridge, microwave, toaster. I labeled some shelves in the pantry—your section is in the middle. I don't care what you eat as long as you clean up after yourself."
His gaze moves over the counters, the sink, the small table pushed against the window. "You cook a lot?"
"When I can afford more than ramen and frozen pizza," I say. "But yes. I enjoy having food prepped for my late shifts so I'm not living on bar fries." I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "You're welcome to anything I label as shared. Coffee, condiments, that kind of thing."
He nods slowly. "I'll buy my own stuff. Don't want to eat you out of house and home."
My stupid brain supplies an alternate version of that sentence, and I nearly choke on my saliva. Heat floods my face, and I pivot toward the back door before he can see.
"And out here is the backyard," I say, voice a touch too bright. I open the door and step onto the small concrete stoop.
The late afternoon sun spills over the garden beds, lighting up the greens and reds of the plants.
Rows of tomatoes staked neatly, basil and rosemary in clay pots, marigolds ringing the beds like little suns.
The grass is more clover than actual lawn, but it's green and soft.
It smells of earth and growing things and safety.
I can feel him behind me, a big, solid presence in the doorway. For one insane second, I picture him out here shirtless, helping me haul compost, muscles flexing, sweat sliding down his chest—
Nope. Nope nope nope.
"This is my garden," I say, stepping aside so he can see without being too close.
"It's…kind of my sanctuary. I work on it a lot when I'm not at the bar.
It's one of the rules, but I just want to reiterate: it's off-limits.
You're welcome to sit out here, of course, but please don't water anything or weed or pick stuff unless I specifically ask.
I know that sounds controlling. I just…this is where I de-stress, and I like handling it myself. "
His expression is unreadable for a moment as he looks out over the beds. Then he nods. "Looks good," he says. "Can tell you put a lot into it."
The unexpected compliment warms me from the inside out. "Thanks."
We head back inside, and silence stretches between us for a beat. I'm too aware of how big he is in my small kitchen, how close we are to the edge of something I cannot afford to fall into.
I check the time on the stove. "Okay, well.
I need to leave for work in about thirty minutes, so I'll let you get settled.
Your keys are in the basket on your bed.
The front door sticks sometimes, so you have to pull it toward you a little when you lock it.
Wi-Fi information is on the rule sheet. If anything's confusing or if you have questions, we can go over it tonight when I get home.
" I pause. "If you're still awake. No pressure to stay up or anything. That sounded weird. I just meant—"
"Ainsley."
His voice stops my verbal spiral. I look up.
His mouth does that almost-smile again. "I'll read the rules," he says. "We can talk later if we need to. You don't have to worry about me."
Too late, I think. Not about safety—though that's still filed under "monitor closely"—but about my self-control. My libido. My complete and utter lack of a filter.
"Okay," I say. "Good. Great."
I back myself toward the hallway, nearly tripping over the rug. "Um, welcome again. To the house. To Evergreen Lakes. And thanks for, you know. Existing. No, that's—forget I said that."
He huffs out a breath that might actually be a laugh. "I'll try."
I flee.