Page 16 of Room for Us
I wonder if confirmation of fertility will be added to the prenup this time. Wouldn’t want another barren bride.
When a cab turns into the driveway, I frown. He should have let me pick him up. It’s at least a seventy-dollar ride from the airport. Turning down a free ride in favor of paid transport is something Chris would have done—he loved blowing money on stupid shit just to prove he could.
The car rolls to a stop. For a few painful moments, I sit frozen on the porch swing. I’m held in place by responsibility, when all I really want is to vault over the railing, run into the woods, and hide until he leaves.
When the back door opens, I finally jolt to my feet. Game face, Zo. You’ve got this. Even if he’s a Chris-clone, it doesn’t matter. You aren’t going to marry him, just rent him a room for six weeks. And make his bed, do his laundry, and cook for him. Which is just like your marriage but without the boring sex. Fabulous. Pep-talk fail.
Tugging down my blouse so I don’t look like I’ve been slouching for an hour, I head down the steps showing too many teeth.
“Mr. Hart, welcome to Rose House!”
There’s a worn leather laptop case and a small duffel on the ground by his feet. The man himself is leaning into the back seat of the taxi—whatever he’s doing, he didn’t hear me over the driver’s radio. Or he did hear me and chose to ignore me.
Swallowing the acid of embarrassment, I clasp my hands and wait with a wide, welcoming smile. A minute passes. My cheeks begin to ache. The cabbie throws me a few weird looks, but at this point I’m committed to holding my smile. I’m not sure what would happen if I tried to relax my face right now.
Since there’s only so much to look at, my gaze wanders over what I can see of Mr. Hart. Even half bent as he is, I can tell he’s tall. Maybe even rivals Zander’s tree-like status. Definitely taller than me. And he doesn’t look at all like he sounded on the phone—I thought he’d be one of those yuppie types who think tailored jeans are casual wear.
This man wears chaos like cologne. From scuffed Converse to tattered jeans and an oversized cable-knit sweater that has seen better decades, I’d never see him in public and assume he’s wealthy enough to drop thousands in a day, or splurge on a seventy-dollar taxi ride. I might even feel bad for him. Maybe buy him a haircut and offer to help him with his résumé.
When he finally closes the car door and turns around, I snap to attention and step forward like the excellent, five-star innkeeper I am. Extending my hand, I say brightly, “Mr. Hart. Zoey Kemper. Rose House welcoming.”
What
the
fuck
just came out of my mouth?
My hand drops like a cinderblock and my face goes molten. “I meant welcomes. Of course.”
Oh, God, help me. It’s because he’s pretty. Too pretty. All disheveled and gloomy-looking.
A pair of dark eyebrows lift, then draw together. Beneath them, pale greenish eyes roam my face in bemusement. He glances longingly at the taxi, now pulling out of the driveway onto the street.
I try again: “Rose House welcomes you!” I’m almost yelling, but at least I don’t sound like I’m stroking out.
Now you sound crazy. Which is not better.
His head tilts to one side as he examines me. The motion, combined with his surreal eye color, makes him decidedly hawk-like. A tall, muscular bird-man who could just as easily fly away as snap my neck.
I’m losing it.
I can’t believe it, but I might cry.
I can’t do this.
I really hope he isn’t an axe murderer.
Why did I think I could do this?
“Are you all right, Ms. Kemper?”
I swallow hard. Clear my throat. “Yes, thank you. I apologize for my behavior. I guess I had a little too much coffee this morning.”
An eyebrow arches; his mouth twitches. Since it’s nearing sunset, he obviously realizes my crazy isn’t coffee related. I’ll be lucky if he stays a week, let alone six.
“Can we go inside now?” he asks in a slow and measured tone, his eyes veering to the house. “I’d like to get settled and have dinner. It was a long day.”
