This is one space where Eddie scrubbed out Bea’s style, I can tell. Before, I bet it was decked out in the same swirling, bright shades as the rest of the house. Peacock blue, saffron yellow, brilliant fuchsia. But here, there’s just Eddie.

And now, me.

Eddie is in the kitchen when I wander in, already dressed for work.

He smiles at me, a cup of coffee already steaming in his hand.

“Morning,” he says, handing it to me. The first morning I’d woken up here, Eddie had made me a plain black cup of coffee, like I’d had the day we met. Sheepishly, I’d confessed that I actually didn’t like black coffee that much, and now I have an expensive milk frother at my disposal, and all kinds of pricey flavored syrups.

Today’s cup smells like cinnamon, and I inhale deeply over the mug before taking a sip. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but I’m only sleeping with you for the coffee,” I say, and he winks at me.

“My ability to make a great cup of coffee really is my only redeeming value.”

“I think you have a few others,” I say, and he glances at me, eyebrows raised.

“Just a few?”

I hold my thumb and forefinger up, putting them close together, and he laughs, which warms me almost as much as the coffee.

I like him. There’s no getting around that. This isn’t just about the house or the money, although I’m fully into those things, trust me. But being with Eddie is … nice.

And he likes me. Not just the me I’ve invented, but the flashes of the real me I’ve let him see.

I want to show him more of the real me, I think. And it’s been a long time since I’ve felt that way.

Turning back to the sink, Eddie rinses out his own coffee cup and says, “So, what’s on your agenda today?”

I’ve been waiting for this moment for the past two weeks, hoping he’d ask what I was doing all day. Because I am still walking those damn dogs. I may stay in Eddie’s house, I may eat the food Eddie buys, but I’m still on my own for everything else. Gas for my car, clothes, odds and ends. I still technically have rent to pay.

“Dogs,” I reply shortly, and he looks up, frowning slightly.

“You’re still doing that?”

Some of the warmth I was feeling toward him fades a little. What did he think I was doing all day? Just sitting around, waiting for him to come back?

I hide that irritation, though, standing up from the stool with a shrug. “I mean, yeah. I have to make money.”

He pulls a face, wiping his hands on one of those Southern Manors towels that are all over the kitchen. This one has a slice of watermelon printed on it, a perfect bite taken out of one side. “You’re welcome to use my card to get whatever you need. And I can add you to my checking account today. My personal one, not the Southern Manors account. Lot more fucking paperwork to that one, but we can get that worked out eventually, too.”

I stand there as he turns away again, balling up the towel and tossing it into the laundry room just off the kitchen.

Is it that easy for men like him? He’s handing me access to thousands and thousands of dollars like it’s nothing, and I could just … take it. Take everything, if I wanted to.

Maybe that’s what it is—it would never occur to him that I would do something like that. That anyone, especially any woman, could do that.

But since this is exactly what I wanted, I smile at him, shaking my head slightly. “That would … that would be amazing, Eddie. Thank you.”

“What’s the point of having it if my girl can’t spend it, hmm?” He comes around the bar, putting an arm around my waist and nuzzling my hair.

“Also,” he says before pulling away, “why don’t you go ahead a pick up your things from your old place, bring them back here? Make it official.”

Pressing a hand against my chest, I give him my best faux-flirty look. “Edward Rochester, are you asking me to move in with you?”

Another grin as he walks backward toward the door. “I think I am. You saying yes?”

“Maybe,” I tell him, and that grin widens as he turns back around.

“I’ll leave the card by the door!” he calls out, and I hear the soft slap of plastic on marble before the door opens and closes, leaving me alone in the house.

My house.

I make myself another cup of coffee, and carry it back upstairs to the massive en suite, my favorite part of the house so far.

Like nearly everything else here, the bathroom is oversized, but not overwhelming. Bea’s stamp is here, too, of course. Had Eddie designed this room, I think it would probably be sleeker, more modern. Glass and steel and subway tile. Instead, it’s marble and copper with a tile floor with a mosaic of—shocker—a magnolia in the center.

I scuff my bare toe against one of the dark green leaves before making my way to the tub.

We had a bathtub in the apartment, but I’d have to be high to actually take a bath in it. Not only is it cramped and stained with black mold in the corners, but the thought of my naked body sitting where John takes a shower? Too horrible to contemplate. No, I’ve always taken the world’s fastest showers, cringing every time the shower curtain touches me.

I fucking deserve this bathtub.

Sitting on the edge, I lean forward and turn on the hot tap, coffee cup still in one hand as I test the water with the fingers of the other.

I’ll get to take a bath in here every day now, forever. This is how I’ll spend my mornings. No more drive from Center Point.

No more dog-walking.

And once I’m done with today’s soak, I’ll get dressed and drive over to that dingy little apartment before putting it behind me and never looking back.

 

* * *

 

I take what Eddie calls “the sensible car,” a Mercedes SUV, and make my way from the shady enclaves of Mountain Brook to the strip malls and ugly apartment complexes of my old home.

It feels strange, parking such a nice car in the space where I used to park my beat-up Hyundai, and stranger still to walk up the concrete steps in my new leather sandals, the clack of my heels loud enough to make me flinch.

Number 234 looks even dingier somehow, and I dig my keys out of my purse.

But when I put the key in, I realize the door is unlocked, and I frown as I step inside. John’s a moron, but he’s not the type to be this careless.