“Home sweet home,” Thomas says as the driver opens my door, a cold blast of air stinging my cheeks.
Home.I don’t know if I reallyhaveone anymore, but this is at least where I’ll be living. When Thomas asked if I was ready to go home, the idea excited me, warmth blooming in my chest at the thought of having a safe place to land after surviving so much chaos. But now that I’m here, it feels like just another house, four new walls that won’t bring me the comfort that my apartment with Étienne did.
Looking back, I can certainly complain about the ugly parts of our relationship, but there were beautiful times too, especially there. All the nights we stayed up too late watching his favorite shitty horror movies, cuddled up on the couch he hated but that he insisted we buy because I liked it. All the bakes I made, which he’d take into his office the next day, returning with praise for me from his employees. Or the time when our faucet broke and sprayed water all over the kitchen and he put on an Édith Piaf album and slow-danced with the mop as I laughed from my dry spot up on the counter.
It wasn’t all bad, and that apartment got to see the best of it. It’s what, in my lowest moments, I want to return to.
But I’ll never have that back, no matter how much I yearn for the solace of that place and the memories made there. So fuck it. I might as well start over and make the best of what’s been offered to me.
And I’ve been offered somethingverynice.
Thomas escorts me through the wrought iron gate that separates the sidewalk from the front garden and up the narrow path to the white stone building. There’s a bay window to the right of the front door, and I catch a glimpse inside before he turns the knob of the gleaming black door. It looks a lot like the lobby of a hip luxury hotel with low-slung velvet couches and oil paintings in heavy bronze frames. It’s far more contemporary than I was expecting from Prince Charming’s classic—okay, let’s be honest: old-fashioned—vibe.
When the door swings open, I’m met with a wider foyer than I expected, and I consider ducking back outside to make sure we haven’t suddenly been transported somewhere else.
“This is way bigger than I thought it would be,” I say as I glance around, taking in the herringbone-carpeted staircase and the black-and-white gallery wall leading to the second floor. “It looked so narrow from outside.”
Thomas rubs the back of his neck, a sheepish smile on his face. “That’s because it’s actually three buildings put together. We kept the facades of the individual houses but knocked down the interior walls.”
I was wrong. This isn’t a £10 million house, it’s £30 million at the very least.
I glance around appreciatively, leaning past him to take in the room that branches off to the left. “Didn’t realize racing paid so well.”
“Sometimes it does.”
It’s another vague answer, like when he told me his family was in hotels and was reluctant to elaborate. I shoot him a wry look. “But it didn’t pay for this, did it?”
“Not completely,” he admits. Eager to change the subject,he extends an arm, motioning past the staircase to the house beyond. “Shall I give you the full tour?”
I drop my purse on the sideboard and kick off my shoes. “Lead the way.”
We start at the back, where there’s a beautiful sunroom off the kitchen. “Doesn’t actually get much sun,” he says dryly.
I take my time in the kitchen, peeking in the aggressively large stainless-steel fridge and running my fingers over the stove’s eight burners. There’s a wall-mounted double oven and top-of-the-line equipment that I’d bet good money he’s never touched a day in his life. In fact, some of it is so new that there’s still plastic wrapped around the cords.
Maybe it’s because he doesn’t spend much time here, considering he’s busy traveling around the world, but wouldn’t his chefs have removed that by now? Unless…unless it’s not his chefs’ equipment.
I don’t have to look closely to see the stand mixer is the same brand I use for small-batch testing and cooking at home. Same with the handheld appliances lined up perfectly on the marble countertops. They’re even the same color that I prefer—a shade of café au lait that’s available only by custom order. But those aren’t mine sitting there. No, mine are beat to hell from use. These are fresh out of the box.
There’s no way he bought them just for me. To have gone through all the trouble of not just purchasing them, but in the exact specifications I love. Absolutely not.
But…did he?
We’re moving on with our tour before I can work up the nerve to ask. There’s an impressive gym in the basement, with mirrors lining the walls and every weight and cardio machine a gym rat could want. There’s even a Pilates reformer machinein the corner. The thought of him sliding around on it has me covering up a laugh with a cough.
Our next stop when we go back upstairs is a space I wasn’t expecting, but I give an impressed click of my tongue when he swings the door open.
“Andthisis my trophy room,” he announces with a grand gesture.
I stare at the rows and rows of sparkling trophies, plaques, medals, and even helmets that I’m guessing were specially made for past races. If this is anything to go on, man’s been winninga lotin his life.
“Damn,” I murmur, impressed. “I need to get one of these for myself.”
“We can share,” he says easily. “I’ll make room for you.”
I snort, backing out of the room again, but there’s a flutter in my chest at the idea of him wanting to display my accomplishments next to his. The simple idea of him making room for me in his life.
Remember, this is temporary. It’s not even real.