Page 27 of Her Ex's Father
“A tour, then. Just a quick one. Mr. Bronson is wrapping up a call, but he asks that you join him for dinner—and I’m sure he’ll find you before then.”
Hugh gives me a light, straight-forward tour that my tired mind somehow manages to process. Inside the home doesn’t feel so massive, with rooms comfortable and close, nooks to tuck into and fireplaces ready to stave off the spring chill.
The wedding was six days ago. After breakfast the day after, Ben had told me the plan: send me, with a group of movers, back to Montana. He’d been amused by my insistence in driving down but orchestrated everything calmly and without fuss.
Now I’m… home.
Hugh takes me to the second floor, a short hallway with tall windows and a dark blue accent wall. A dark wood door opens onto a suite.
Ben had called itmy suite. Said it like it was a practical arrangement, not something he’d decided in under a minute when I asked where I was supposed to sleep. I’d bet money he hasn’t set foot in this wing in years.
The movers follow me inside, efficient and silent. The space is bigger than my first apartment. The bed’s a four-poster, draped in linen. A writing desk sits by the window. Everything is covered in crisp white sheets, like the room’s been sleeping.
I trail my fingers over the sheet covering the dresser—dustless. Someone’s been cleaning in here. Regularly.
What was this room? Guest room? Office? Something else entirely? Hugh has disappeared, so I don’t get the chance to ask him. In the background, I hear water running and peek into a little bathroom.
The movers file in, carrying boxes and garment bags, stacking them near the closet door. I direct them to leave the larger trunks against the wall.
“Anything else, ma’am?” one asks.
“That’s it, thanks.”
When they’re gone, the house falls quiet again. I start unpacking, peeling back layers of tissue and bubble wrap, folding clothes into drawers, lining up toiletries.
The hours blur. By the time I’m done, my arms ache, my hair is falling out of a bun, and I’m starting to notice little islands of dust as I get to know the room.
I stand in the middle, surveying my progress. It looks lived in now, which is more than I can say for me.
The big soaking tub in the bathroom has been calling my name since I first walked in. I strip down, dropping clothes in acareless pile. My skin prickles in the cool air, but I like it—like shaking off the dirt from the drive.
I pad barefoot toward the bathroom, glancing once at my reflection in the mirror over the dresser. My hair’s a mess. My cheeks are flushed from hauling boxes. The funny thing is, I don’t look unhappy… and yet…
I should be thinking about Derrick. About the fact that this entire arrangement is meant to be temporary. That when he finally decides to grace us with his presence, the plan is to annul my marriage to his father and slip seamlessly into one with him.
Never,evermention the night Ben bent me over the couch and called me agood girl.
The thought makes me scowl.
Doesn’t anyone care whatIwant?
I’m halfway through the bedroom when the door bursts open.
I yelp, grabbing the nearest thing in reach—a neatly folded sheet from the bed—and clutching it to my chest.
He stops dead in the doorway. His gaze rakes over me, sharp and unhurried, before he drags it up to my face.
“What the hell, Ben?”
“I—” He shakes his head once, jaw tight. “Didn’t know you were?—”
“Naked? Yeah, you could’ve knocked.” My voice is sharper than I mean it to be, but my heart’s still hammering from the surprise.
His eyes flick, almost involuntarily, back down to where the sheet barely covers the curve of my hip. “This is my house.”
“This is my room,” I fire back.
His mouth curves into something that’s not quite a smile. “Temporary room.”
