Page 75 of Perfume Girl
“No, I have somewhere else I can stay.”
“I didn’t expect to be a guest in your home.”
I smiled at her. “I think you’ll like it.”
“I feel you here,” she whispered. “It’s got your touch.”
“In what way?”
“There’s nothing complicated about it. The room is serene.”
Her words sent a shiver through me because that was how I thought of her.
I countered with, “So, we agreed upon a month, right?”
“How will I repay you?”
“No need. Let me show you around.”
We took a tour of the rest of the home and Raquel looked adorably overwhelmed. It was the way she flitted a nervous glance my way when I explained that the tile in the kitchen had been imported from Italy, and the way she ran her hand over the carved wooden banister, showing her appreciation for the craftsmanship.
I had never minded living alone. I’d gotten used to it, but I felt some inner peace knowing she would breathe new life into this place just by being here.
We strolled down the upper floor’s hallway and she stopped to admire the small painting by Sandro Botticelli.
“Is that real?” She looked at me, wide-eyed.
“Yes.” I hid my amusement, and pointed down the hall. “My room’s at the end.”
I led her to another door, and opened it. “This is the guest bedroom.” I gestured for her to go in.
Raquel stepped into the room, her gaze sweeping over the generous bed with its white duvet and stacked pillows, and the antique nightstands on either side.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay here?” she asked softly.
“My other place is fine.” Even as I spoke those words I knew it wasn’t an option. Not if I wanted to sleep. There’d be no chance of avoiding the relentless nightmares if I was under the roof of the place that triggered them. Too many shadows filled the dark hallways.
I’d check into a hotel. Throw money at the problem.
I reached into my jacket. “Here are the keys for the Mercedes. Now you have no excuse not to get to work on Monday.” I waggled my eyebrows.
“What about you?”
“I have a Range Rover in the garage.”
“Thank you.” She blinked at me. “You are being incredibly kind.”
“Give me your phone. I’ll enter my number.”
“You can write it down,” she said warily.
I held out my hand. “I promise not to peek at your latest Google search.”
She rummaged in her handbag and fished out her phone, unlocking it for me.
I took it from her and entered my number. “There,” I said, handing it back.
“Thank you.”
