Chapter Seven Mercy #2
The ceilings were tall, the walls and trim painted a creamy white still warm enough to be inviting.
There was a sitting room to the left, with a fuzzy rug underneath leather chairs and a wide circular table holding a stack of books that I recognized.
Facing the door was a brick fireplace that was clearly original to the house, but the age of the stone didn’t detract from the rest of the updates.
Beyond the fireplace was a more formal living room, where a wall-mounted TV framed like artwork faced a long couch in a deep navy color, so dark it was almost black, which was flanked by high-backed armchairs in camel-colored leather.
A thick, soft blanket was draped over the arm of the couch, pillows in varying shades of white and ivory adorning the cushions.
When I was ten, I used to stuff pillowcases with my clothes just to add more softness to my little bed in my little room. They were lumpy and uncomfortable and exactly what I needed at the time.
In my stunned trance, I wandered over to the couch and idly ran my fingers over the first pillow I could reach. “I picked these, didn’t I?”
“I learned quite early on that if you don’t have at least three extra pillows for movie-watching or sleep, there will be dire consequences.” He cleared his throat. “It was a battle I conceded quickly.”
I ran a shaky hand over my hair and wandered past the family room, turning a corner to the dining area, which led into a massive kitchen.
The dining table, long and rectangular with carved pedestal legs, could fit ten.
We must always host Thanksgiving and Christmas, with a table like this.
Giant turkey in the middle, waiting to be carved, the kind you’d see in commercials.
Candles flickering among more dishes than anyone could eat.
A hungry girl used to dream about meals like that. A full table of people who loved each other. Laughter. Talking. Games. Food.
Love.
I’d spent my first Christmas Day after Connor died sitting on my couch with the ripped arm, watching The Grinch with a plate of leftovers that Rae had sent me home with on Christmas Eve.
The far wall was a big stretch of windows overlooking the backyard, which boasted more trees.
More perfectly manicured landscaping. My eyes narrowed slightly at the back corner of the property, which was bigger than I’d assumed from the front of the house.
A thatched roof, deep-green siding, two little windows on either side of a charming antique door caught my gaze.
“Is that a greenhouse?”
Grant joined me at the edge of the dining room. The heat from his body made me damn near sway in his direction, so I kept my knees fucking locked. “Yours,” he said.
My head snapped toward him. “What?”
“Believe it or not, you’ve developed quite a passion for gardening. You find it soothing.”
“Oh God,” I moaned. “I pull weeds for fun? How much worse can this get?”
Grant didn’t answer, merely tucked his hands into his pants pockets and rocked back on the heels of his leather shoes.
I could hardly catalog all the stunning details of this place I called home.
It was like someone had pried into the recesses of my brain—the parts that were still accessible—and torn a page from young Mercy’s scrapbook of impossible dreams. Pictures clipped from catalogs and magazines and glued to the pages.
I rubbed my fingers together like I could still feel the residue from the glue stick.
Because amid the designer finishes, I saw glimpses of me.
The pillows. The color of the couch, and the curved arms I’d always wanted.
On the dining room wall, a collage of massive prints by Yayoi Kusama, one of my favorite artists.
I walked closer, breath catching in my lungs as I touched the edge of the frame—something I’d had a postcard of in college, pinned to my dorm room corkboard because that little postcard was the only fucking way I could afford something of hers at the time.
“You let me put these up?” I asked, and fuck, I hated the tremble in my voice too.
“Let is a rather weak word for the badgering I took when I tried to insert my opinion on the art in this house.”
I glanced sideways. “You called them garish when I said she was my favorite.”
“That wasn’t very friendly of me.” Grant’s gaze stayed on mine just long enough that the hair on my arms lifted with goose bumps. “Maybe you could allow that opinions, no matter how long held, have the ability to change.”
I tore my gaze away from his and willed my thundering heart to calm while I stared at the vibrant red mosaic print closest to me. Not the wisest choice, maybe. Red was the color of passion. Ravenous appetite. And anger.
All those things existed in a different universe from where I resided with Grant, and they needed to fucking stay that way.
“Bedrooms?” I asked, fixing my expression into something Grant-like. Very I don’t care and nothing bothers me because I’m Teflon Man.
His gaze traced over my face, narrowing a touch before he tilted his head toward a hallway. “Three that way. The primary bedroom and our offices. Downstairs, there are two guest rooms, two bathrooms, and a gym.”
I pursed my lips. “A gym. That’s . . . a choice that I’d never make for myself, but okay.
” He opened his mouth to say something, and I jammed my finger right into his firm, muscly chest. “If you say that I’ve developed a taste for working out in the last year,” I said, mimicking his posh accent, “I will punch you in the throat.”
“First, that’s not how I sound. And two, no, you haven’t. You’ve threatened to remove it from the house on no less than five occasions.” He raised an eyebrow. “Six, now that I think about it.”
“Well, at least I’m consistent.” I crossed my arms tight over my chest and stared down the hallway. “Which door is the bedroom?”
When he answered, his voice was lower than normal. “Last door on the right.”
The thought of wandering into a bedroom that was ours made my pulse fucking scream, so I took a deep breath through my nose and channeled Girl with the Bat.
“I’d like to look on my own.”
His jaw tightened. “Of course.”
The offices only received a brief glance, and it wasn’t difficult to tell whose was whose.
Grant’s was neat as a pin, hardly anything adorning his desk except a small stack of papers, his laptop, and a potted succulent in the corner of the desk.
Mine, on the other hand, was the first room I’d seen painted a different color.
Everything in here was moody and dark and lush.
The walls had been painted a deep green, the ceiling papered with a seamlessly repeating design of vines and flowers and trees with big green leaves.
The reading chair tucked against the wall of books was a soft white color, made from a material that would make a fluffy little kitten rot with jealousy.
It was filled with pillows in the same off-white shade.
Tempted to sign over my soul to nap in that exact spot, I started wondering whether this entire experience was some Faustian deal with the devil.
All you have to do is marry this man, and I’ll give you everything you want.
The bedroom was last, and when I pushed the door open, I could practically feel Grant’s eyes searing into my back. Like the rest of the house, the style of the room was unfamiliar. But not unwelcome.