It’s strange. It’s wrong. And yet, a vibration hums in my chest, like a plucked guitar string, that suggests she fits right in to the negative space I’ve been ignoring for years. As if the house has been waiting for someone to fill it, and now she’s here, the emptiness becomes difficult to ignore.
I shove the thought down. This is a business arrangement, a mutually beneficial deal. Nothing more.
Peyton wanders into the kitchen. She trails a finger along the island, an expanse of white marble big enough to land a helicopter on, and stops in front of the six-burner Wolf range. I make breakfast on it and I’ve used it to boil water twice, maybe three times.
She turns to me, voice sad. “Do you live here by yourself?”
I lean against the doorframe, shoving my hands into the pockets of these atrocious white slacks. “Yep, just me.”
Brown eyes search my face for something I’m not sure I want her to find. “It must be lonely.”
The observation lands like a jab to the ribs, precise and unblocked. I stiffen. I’m used to people walking in here and commenting on the square footage, the panoramic views, the ridiculous cost of the imported Italian marble. No one ever talks about the echoes.
“Why buy a place this big for one person?” She leans her hip against the counter.
“I didn’t buy it.” I walk over to her side of the island. “I built it.”
Her eyebrows rise.
“The architect drew up plans that allowed for the possibility of a future family.” I gesture at the open space. “Room to grow. That sort of thing.”
Peyton’s lips twitch. “Are you planning to have seven children? Like the guy inThe Sound of Music?”
“Gosh, no.” I huff a laugh.
“Let me guess.” She cocks her head, studying me with a terrifying amount of insight for someone I met yesterday. “Daddy’s idea?”
“And Mom’s.” I rest my hands on the back of a barstool. “It was a joint effort. A coordinated pincer movement. He craves the legacy, and she wants the holiday card photo op.”
Peyton nods, her gaze sweeping over the pristine kitchen with its double wall ovens and the warming drawer that I only use to store the takeout menu for A Slice of Heaven, the pizzeria by the lake.
“That explains the trad-wife wet-dream setup.” She flicks a hand at the gleaming appliances. “Am I expected to dress like we’re in the fifties and wear rollers to bed after baking casseroles all day?”
I move closer and give in to the impulse I’ve been fighting since we got in the car. I reach for the dark spiral that’s escaped her messy bun.
“Your hair is curly enough,” I say, tugging gently on her curl, stretching it. “No rollers needed.” I let go and watch, fascinated, as it bounces back. Peyton stays very still. “You don’t have to play a part or be someone you’re not. Be yourself. Messy hair, sarcastic comments, whatever makes you comfortable.” I meet her eyes. “The only thing you need to fake is being helplessly in love with me.”
A flush starts at the hollow between her collarbones, a creeping pink tide that rises to her cheeks. She takes a deliberate step backward, retreating from me, and clears her throat.
“Good to know my tattoos won’t be a problem for your conservative family,” she deadpans.
Tattoos?
My gaze drops to the V of her sweater. I scan her neck, the dip of her collarbones, her wrists. I go back to this morning; I didn’tsee any tattoos on the glimpses of pale skin I got when she was wearing nothing but that bathrobe.
Is she messing with me? Playing games?
Or are the tattoos hidden somewhere I haven’t seen?
The impulse to strip her naked on the kitchen counter and find out pushes uninvited into my brain.
The doorbell rings, cutting through my problematic thoughts.
Thank fuck.
“Who is it?” Peyton glances toward the foyer, worried.
“Lila.” I’m already moving, grateful for the interruption. “She knows we’re not married. I had to bring her in on the plan, and she demanded to be present at the strategizing session.”