Page 100 of Mortgage of Convenience

“How did I do?” he asks, his lips brushing my skin. “Was that what you had in mind?”

“It was perfect.” I kiss him. “I don’t have words. I never once imagined someone could do that for me, but it was exactly what I wanted. Thank you.”

He takes such good care of me, has since the day I moved in. It’s in his nature, in everything he does. But it doesn’t bother me the way it does when it’s Aiden hovering over my shoulder. Because Sebastian trusts me to handle myself. Saw my strength before I even recognized it. Gave me the tools to test it, prove it, embed it into the foundations of myself.

I lost sight of it briefly. I see that now.

Beside me, Sebastian’s steady breathing syncs with my slowing heartbeat. Following the dips and bumps of his spine with my fingers, I breathe him in. I’m not sure how I got here, but I can’t leave.

Home has always been distant for me, somewhere I return to, not somewhere I live. Not someone I know almost as well as myself. Who’s calmed by watching themigration of hippos or the courtship rituals of penguins. Who can move like sin itself. Who has lived his life to every extent, and yet his greatest dream is to tend to his family of plants and cover every meal in hot sauce. Who invested himself in my writing even though he doesn’t read a lot, looks sexiest after a run (that’s a lie, he looks sexy all day, every day), finds time in his day to care for the people in his life.

I fit my hand to the wings on Sebastian’s shoulder, kissing his temple.

Home has always been somewhere far away. Until now.

30

BEE

Giulia confirms it.They have more jobs lined up, but it’ll require me to travel. If I want to work (which I do), then there are some smaller jobs I can conduct via phone or video chat.

It’s not the same. We both know it. Colleagues of mine work that way, but it extends the time needed, because you miss so many cues when you’re talking over the phone. Not to mention distractions, reception issues, time zones… No. She made it clear that if I really needed the work—and the money—sooner rather than later, then I need to consider packing a bag. Which is about as far from what I want to do as it’s possible to be.

I don’t tell her that the book is done. Not yet.

I can barely believe it, to be honest.

Yes, it’ll need a few more read-throughs, but the characters are fleshed out and the plot moves nicely. Anything I add now would feel like filler. It’ll need tweaking and edits, and there’s still the panic of actually submitting it to my editor, but…

I close my laptop.

It’s finished.

I kind of expected a parade. Instead, it’s quiet. The mornings haven’t lost their bite yet, and as I curl up tighter in my seat, I remember how this moment has felt every other time I’ve finished a book. The handful of memoirs I’ve written always came with a sense of relief when they were over, knowing I’d helped shape someone’s story. Now, I’m not sure how to feel.

I can do this, I know that now, but instead of relief, I have more questions than ever before. If I stay (and every molecule of my being knows this is home now), then there’s more I need to do. Talk to Sebastian, for one. And my brother (oh god). And Morgan. I’m not sure which conversation scares me the most. This whole honesty thing really is a kick in the pants. Life was so much simpler when I was thousands of miles away and all I worried about was the side effects of eating crab rangoons three times in the same week.

I’m glad to be done. A little sad to leave the characters, sure, but more sad for myself. Because this project has been on my to-do list for a long, long time. Always in my back pocket, carried with me from home and back again. And now that it’s finished, I’m not sure what else I really have.

This house, my family. Sebastian…

But what is my life? What do I have outside of this skill (and we’ll see how long I can call it that once my editor sees it)?

I’ve watched Sebastian tend to the house. It’s so much more to him than cracked walls and loud pipes and draftywindows. It’s home, and it’s his. He goes to work and then he comes home to a life.

What am I coming back to?

“Come out, you little bastard.” I scrub harder.

Either the grout is getting tougher or I’m finally succumbing to the fumes. I settle back on my heels. A stone of doubt has been rumbling around in my gut for the better part of a week, and I thought cleaning would help me feel better.

So far, all I’ve got is a backache and sore knees. The bathroom looks spotless , though.

Minus this one tile.

“Fine,” I hiss when another minute of scrubbing doesn’t work. “Be that way. See if I care.”

I sag against the cool shower wall.

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