me and lean over my shoulder. “It’s leather; it’ll be fine.” He reaches over me and shuts the door. “Come on.”
After he punches in the security code and pushes open the door, he steps aside. “After you.”
I don’t even want to look at the place. It’s everything I’ve been taught was wrong with the world.
“Savvy”—he steps around me—“let’s get you some dry clothes.”
When I don’t follow him, he stops.
“I swear to you, you’re safe with me.”
“It’s not you; it’s this … house.”
“House is safe, too. There’s a security system and no sign of spirits, angry or otherwise.”
“My shoes are wet.”
“Shit.” He chuckles. “Good call.”
He toes off his sneakers, revealing glistening white socks, and I look down at my own shoes, one of my thrift store finds. Canvas sneakers that I hand-painted. At the time, I was so damn proud of them. Mud-stained and soaked against the sleek gray wood flooring, they look like they should be left outside.
Patrick kneels down in front of me and starts to untie one. I start to step back, but he grabs my foot and finishes the job. He pulls it off my foot, and I stare down at my socks. They look as bad as the shoes. Then he unties the other shoe, grabs them both, and sets them upside down beside the door. His are placed on either side of mine.
Standing, he nods his head toward the open space beyond the entry. “No one’s here, and I don’t bite … unless asked. Now, let’s go before I throw your ass over my shoulder and—”
“Fine.”
I follow him from a distance, now looking around and realizing how paled the memory of being overwhelmed when walking into Seashore and the dorms at MacArthur Hall have become in an instant.
The open space that is the kitchen, dining room, and living room is bigger than the common room in the dorms.
I watch as he stops in front of a huge fireplace, takes a remote off the stone mantel, and hits a couple buttons, bringing it to a roaring life.
I hurry toward it, not caring at this moment that I’m in a mansion. My only care is that I’m cold, and there’s a fire.
I love fireplaces, and yes, I know it’s not uncommon to have one inside a house, but I’ve never seen an actual working one.
I let go of the blanket, clutched around me, and hold my hands out to warm them.
“Pretty badass, huh? Our old place didn’t have one. Actually, our old place didn’t have shit compared to this one, and two could fit in here.”
“It’s warm,” I say as I soak in the heat.
“Yeah, you hang there and get warmed up. I’ll go see what I can find for you to wear.”
“This is nice. You don’t need to—”
“Savvy,” he says sternly, and I look up at him. “If I was freezing my ass off, soaked to the bone, I know damn well you’d offer the same. It’s not an imposition; it’s the right thing to do.”
“Maybe I wouldn’t.” I shrug.
He smiles that damn smile that makes every girl, even ones who know they like girls, melt. “There she is, showing up at the bottom of the ninth, ready to play with the big dogs.” Then he turns around, and I watch him cross a room the size of a restaurant with a carefree, confident way about him. He turns left at the top and looks down, catching me staring.
Great, just great, I think, waiting for that smug grin to cross his lips. Instead, he surprises me by asking, “You have a favorite color?”
“Green.”
He grips the handrail and leans over, his eyes narrowing. “Favorite shade?”
I answer, “All of them.”
Just like the specks in your eyes, I think as I force my focus from him to the fire, blaming it for the warmth now consuming me.
On one side of the mantel, there’s a family picture, the whole extended family, all stunning, not one of them looks like … me. In the middle is Patrick and his parents. Having seen his dad, I know what to expect, but his mother has deep red hair, hanging in perfect beach waves, and gorgeous green eyes, and skin paler than the men in the portrait that was taken somewhere high on a hill overlooking crystal blue water, nearly a perfect match to his father’s eyes. I expected his father to have married someone like Chloe—blonde and heavily made up. I guess an assumption because he has visible tattoos. I know that doesn’t