It’s not.
It’s stunning.
Shiny and new and full of landscaping so aggressively maintained it makes me nervous. The kind of place where the whisper quiet laundry machines are stacked and the pool looks like an oasis.
Not that the pool at our house isn’t nice—but with Cash throwing impromptu parties and me impromptu falling into bed with Turner, a change of scenery is best for all three of us.
The leasing agent meets us at the front entrance, all smiles and shiny hair and the kind of clipboard confidence I’ll never have.
“Welcome to The Arbors!” she chirps, like we’ve just stepped onto a cruise ship instead of an apartment tour. “You must be Poppy. And…?”
“Um. My current roommate.”
Turner gives me a flat look.
The agent giggles politely and ushers us into the model unit, which, of course, is huge and spotless.And staged within an inch of its life.There’s a throw blanket folded with military precision on the couch and a fake plant thriving suspiciously in a corner where real sunlight would never reach.
Turner walks through the kitchen like a man inspecting a crime scene. He opens a drawer, peers into the oven.
He opens the pantry. “Hmph. Not even a single bag of stale tortilla chips.”
“It’s amodel unit, Turner.”
He turns to face me, leaning his massive frame against the doorjamb. “You’d hate it here.”
“No I wouldn’t,” I shoot back, defensively, cause he’s such a know-it-all, and cupping a hand around my ear. “Do you hear that noise?”
He shakes his head.
“Exactly. No dog, no Cash, no party people.”
Turner raises a brow, arms crossing over his chest. “So you’re saying youlikesilence now?” He pushes off the doorframe and steps toward me. Too close.Close enough I can see the flecks of gold in his irises.“So what—you’re just going to move in here and pretend you won’t miss me?”
My breath catches.
I open my mouth—something sarcastic, something breezy—but the leasing agent’s phone rings and she holds up a finger. “Sorry! One second, I need to take this.” She steps out into the hall, already nodding through whatever crisis awaits her on the other end.
And now it’s just the two of us. In a pristine, perfectly staged one-bedroom apartment with tension so thick you could cut it with a decorative cheese knife.
I head toward the little office nook and stick my head in the door. “This is nice,” I say, voice too bright. “Could have a big desk and probably a couch.”
We drift toward the bedroom. It’s huge. Light-drenched.
Pretty—unlike what I have now. My room was obviously decorated by a man and it’s already cramping my style. The nightstand wobbles. The blinds don’t close all the way. The carpet has a mysterious stain I’ve chosen to spiritually ignore.
But this?
It’s curated. Safe.Adult.
I step inside and trail my hand along the edge of the bed. Everything in here matches. The rug is plush. The lamps actually have lightbulbs that work.
I glance over my shoulder at him. He’s leaning in the doorway again, arms crossed, like he’s trying not to get too close. Like the idea of me in a different zip code is something he doesn’t want to think about.
Too bad. I’m already thinking about it enough for both of us.
I lower myself onto the bed, bounce lightly on the mattress. “Firm,” I murmur, like I’m capable of being normal. “Feels expensive.”
And then he moves.
