I can’t adjust it or she’ll see. Thankfully, she’s preoccupied with my question.
“See that ridgeline?” She points to a spot in the distance. It’s past the last tall buildings of Nashville, in an area where the hills begin to form. “I’d put a little place somewhere like that. With a great view of the sunrise and a field with tons of wildflowers. There’d be a room with windows like this and a woodstove because there’s nothing more romantic than that. And a claw-foot bathtub nestled in a corner and tons and tons of bookshelves.”
“And?”
“And that’s it.” She shrugs. “I don’t really know what else someone could want.”
“A Viking range. Heated floors. A poodle spa,” I say, rattling off a few items from Meredith’s list.
She grins. “None of that matters to me.” She folds her arms over her chest and looks back at the city. “I would like to trip over kids’ toys. And have a little oven I can bake cookies in. And a hammock for the trees for springtime.”
I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that. It wasn’t something so fresh and simple.
“I love the way you say ‘that’s it’ and then ramble on more things than you start with.”
She grins. “What’s yours? And I’ll assume the Viking range and heated floors are a given.”
I shove my hands in my pockets to keep from pulling her to me while I think about her question. What kind of house would I like?
A few weeks ago, my answer would’ve been simple. Something clean. Modern. Organized. Lots of stone and steel with wooden beams in the downstairs.
Now, I’m not sure. My taste in architecture hasn’t changed—I still prefer a modern look over a rustic aesthetic. But maybe the change is in the feel of the place.
I read once in a magazine that Jake had lying around that a person’s personal space mirrors their internal thoughts. It made sense. Mom’s house was always a crazy jumble of things. Dad’s was an attempt at being a trendsetter but missing the mark. Jake’s is clean, thanks to a housekeeper, and mine checks off every box. But Haley’s is different.
Her space is warm and inviting. It doesn’t need a large square footage like Mom’s to be interesting or the newest trends like Dad’s to be relevant. You can tell someone lives there, someone does shit they love there, someone orchestrates a full life out of that little space.
And that has me thinking. What do I want?
I’m not so sure. Now the perfect place seems less and less about the place itself. Less about the view or the insulation of the space or the accessibility to my job.
It feels more and more about . . . something else.
Ideas like that will fuck a man up. Just like what happened to my dad.
I shrug. “I don’t know. I do love a good heated floor in the winter.”
She gives me a look. “You would.”
“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?” I chuckle.
“It means you’re a bit of a diva, I think.” She laughs at me, not with me, and turns toward the room on the opposite end of the suite. “I need to get ready. This hair isn’t going to fix itself.”
I think about calling after her and telling her she’s goddamn beautiful. I also consider offering to have someone from the spa downstairs come up and help her. But as she slides me a grin as she closes the door to her bedroom, separate from mine at her request, I think better of it.
I want her to go with me tonight just the way she is. Like a beautiful woman that I’m lucky likes me enough to be my friend. To humor me and my crazy ideas. To let me into her world, even if for a minute.
With a grin, I stride across the room into my bedroom. I leave my door open, just in case.
“Wide under narrow,” I say.
I watch myself attempt a tie in the mirror. It’s not something I’ve ever been particularly good at. There’s usually a woman somewhere who is all too happy to help me get it right, and I’m all too happy to let them.
My fingers fumble with the smooth fabric of the tie. I clumsily attempt to pull the wide end up over the narrow. The material falls from my fingers. I sigh. This feels all too reminiscent of prom, and feeling like a teenager has me worried about the success of this evening.