says, tugging me along, “a guy is nothing without his dreams.”
“Show me the damn master.”
He guides me to his room where he points out the newly refurbished floors and shiplapped walls. The king-sized bed has a simple wood frame that really fits the feel of the space. The adjoining master bath features a clawfoot tub that appears to be the original, if the green patina on the copper feet is any indication.
“There’s no way you fit in that thing.” I peer around the cramped room, looking for a standing shower, finding none. The state of disrepair makes it clear he hasn’t started renovating in here yet.
“I’m really good at squeezing myself into tight spaces.”
I bite my lip and shake my head. “I can’t…I don’t even know what to say to you.”
“Allow me to demonstrate?” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder, pointing it toward the bed looming ten feet behind us.
“My kid is here.”
“Oh, yeah…next time, then.”
I neither accept nor decline his shameless offer, shaking my head to myself at how forward he’s become while inwardly chastising myself for liking it so much.
“This is my next project,” he says. “I’m going to extend the room, add in a walk-in shower fit for a king, and an enormous closet for my queen.”
Once again, I decide it best not to respond, instead moving on to the next room, knowing he’ll follow.
“This’ll be the nursery, since it’s closest to the master.”
“Will it?” My mind starts filling the space with furniture—a crib on the far wall, a round braided rug with a little wooden rocking horse in the center. Model planes hanging from the ceiling. Lord, my imagination is running wild today. “So, you’re planning on multiple kids?”
“Maybe.” His shoulders rise and fall in a shrug. “With the right woman.” He restates his position from Thanksgiving dinner while his eyes not so subtly journey over my form.
Heat radiates from my ears and my heart squeezes. I feel myself softening to the idea a little more with each brazen proposition being thrown at me. Before I can do anything foolish, my flight response kicks into overdrive.
“Next!” I say, choosing self-preservation and hightailing it down the hall.
“These two rooms are a little bigger,” he says, peering over my shoulder, “and share a Jack and Jill bath.” Wyatt crosses the room, opening the door to the bathroom, which contains a tub-shower combo and all of his manly soaps and shampoos. There’s even a towel draped over the curtain rod and a little steam still fogging the mirror. Hah. I knew he wasn’t fitting his ass in that tub. “Prissy can have her choice, or even both, until we have to free up the nursery again.”
“Sounds like you plan on keeping your future wife busy.”
He waggles his brows. “I promise, I’ll leave no room for complaints.”
Well, then.
Having Whitney and Prissy here in my space feels right.
Two months doesn’t seem like a lot of time—certainly not enough to be envisioning forever with a person. Neither does it seem sufficient to be prepared to commit to taking on a six-year-old child. But every move I make, every change, every addition to this old house, is with them in mind—much to my Mimi’s displeasure.
My grandmother’s worried I’m moving too fast. She says I need to slow down and stop letting my emotions lead. But I know that once she has the chance to meet the new ladies in my life, she’ll be just as smitten as I am.
“Shhhh!” I say when Miss Priss comes thundering in with Rufus following closely behind. “She fell asleep.” I point to the living room, where Whitney is curled up snoring on the sectional.
“Sorry.” She scrunches her shoulders. “Wanna see what I taught Sprinkles?”
I look around to see what the heck she’s talking about. Did she find a new pet in the woods?
“Just watch,” she orders, grabbing a handful of treats from the jar on the counter that was so full it could barely close this morning and is now damn near empty. “Sprinkles, sit!”
My usually obstinate pup obediently plops his ass on the floor, wagging his tail as he stares at her expectantly.
“Good boy,” Prissy praises, placing a Milkbone on his tongue and giving him a scrub behind the ears.
“What did you just call him?”
“Rufus is a stupid name,” she says with a shrug.
I choke on air. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. What even is a Rufus anyway?”
“A name,” I answer. “A manly name for a manly dog.”
“He looks like vanilla ice cream with chocolate sprinkles.