Page 46 of My Only

Leaning in closer, I examined it, squinting. “Ew.”

At first glance, it looked like an alien spaceship had crash-landed between my coffee maker and the coffee carousel.

But no…

I tilted my head.

Was it a… melting coffee cup?

An oversized, ceramic, melting coffee cup, painted metallic silver with splashes of red and blue.

The design was all over the place.

It was too much.

And it had Hassani written all over it.

“Oh, uh-uh.” I shook my head and immediately turned to leave the kitchen, forgetting all about the coffee I had come to brew.

We’d been in our house for four years now.

Hassani had made a few improvements—a built-in spice rack, a reading nook beneath the staircase, little details that made our home even better.

And while his building projects always hit, his decor choices were a continuous miss.

We’d already discussed and agreed that he would check in with me before buying any new decor for the house.

And yet…

That chaotic mess of ceramic was sitting in my kitchen.

I stormed through the house, heading straight for the home office.

Hassani had been glued to his computer all morning, emailing back and forth for the Greene Gardens Project he was still in negotiations to join.

The moment I reached the open doorway, I spotted him, seated in his leather chair, eyes locked on one of the two computer monitors in front of him.

The office had a sleek, masculine feel, with warm wooden tones.

I told Hassani to design it however he wanted since he used it far more than I did.

My only contribution? Storing the books that didn’t fit on my many bookshelves throughout the house on his wall-mounted bookshelf.

He was kind enough to give me a shelf—just one—while the others were reserved for his architecture books.

Beside his long, fast-moving fingers typing on the keyboard was his infamous sketchbook, laid open with an unfinished sketch on the page.

In front of him, one computer screen glowed with a blueprint, the other with an email he was typing.

I leaned against the doorframe, watching the muscles in his forearm flex as he typed.

Clearing my throat, I tapped the wooden frame before crossing my arms over my chest.

“What’s up, baby?” Hassani asked, eyes still glued to the screen, fingers still typing.

“Oh, nothing,” I started. “Just horrified so early in the afternoon.”

He glanced at me, his hazel-green eyes scanning me briefly before refocusing on the screen. “Oh yeah? That sounds fun.”

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