“I’ve never seen LA like this. I think . . .” I narrow my eyes a bit, consider my next words. “I think it makes me love the city a little more.”
Dex’s arms tighten around me, and as I watch the water falling over the edge of the pool and disappearing into space, I get the distinct feeling I’m doing the exact same thing. Dex is the edge, and I’m slipping over it, oblivious as to what awaits me.
“You wanna see the rest of the house?” His voice is quiet, gentle in a way that reminds me of the night we spent curled up next to each other in my small bedroom.
I nod, and Dex slips his hand into mine. As he leads me back into the house, my thumb finds one of the rings he wears on his fingers, and I trace my fingertip across it, feeling it’s personal somehow. Kind of like being in his house.
He lets go of my hand once we’re back inside. “Go ahead,” he says, gesturing vaguely to the house.
“You don’t mind?”
He just shakes his head, and it makes the chain he wears around his neck flash in the overhead light.
Feeling slightly giddy, I start to explore, drifting from room to room, taking in the minimal opulence. The TV in the living room looks familiar, and I realize it was in the background of the photo he sent me of the PS5 controller. It’s weird seeing something in real life that felt so far away on my phone screen, but it’s weird in a good way.
After perusing the first floor, I climb the staircase to the second floor, Dex drifting along quietly behind me. He’s not trying to tour me around, isn’t pointing out all the thousand-dollar fixtures. Instead, he’s silent, and every time I look back at him, he’s wearing a vague sort of smile, looking perfectly at ease.
I step through a doorway on the second floor, and a bedroom suite opens up in front of me, complete with its own contemporary fireplace and large sitting area. A private balcony is visible through another set of sliding doors, and a large darkened bathroom lurks at the other side of the room.
Unlike downstairs, this space feels like Dex. There are a few guitars on stands in the sitting area, and a thin bookshelf is stuffed to the brim with vinyl records. A record player stands on a tall black table next to the bookshelf, piquing my curiosity. I drift over to see what Dex was last listening to.
“Miles Davis,” I say, brow furrowing, and he nods from his spot leaning against the bedroom doorframe. I turn to look at him. “You like jazz?”
He drifts over, and I make room for him beside the record player. The rings on his fingers wink as he flips the disc onto the opposite side and moves the needle. A moment later, the sound of a mournful trumpet bleeds out of the speakers. The album has that pure, raw sound that’s impossible to reproduce digitally, like the music itself is alive and breathing. I close my eyes, taking it in.
“I wouldn’t have guessed,” I say softly, opening my eyes and directing my gaze to Dex. He’s standing close to me, fingertips perched on the table, gaze faraway. At my words, his blue eyes shift to look at me.
“What? You think I just listen to ’80s rock or something?”
Shrugging, I give him a shy smile.
One of his sandy brows arches playfully. “I’ve got a bit more depth than that, Little Monster.”
Hearing his nickname for me, my insides squeeze. There’s something about the way he says it that makes me want to curl up on his tongue and feel the way it glides around each syllable.
Reaching out, he lifts the needle off the record, and the music cuts off abruptly, leaving the room feeling emptier somehow.
“You ready to eat?” he asks.
God, yes. I’m starving.
“Yeah. What do you have?”
His only response is a small laugh.
We head back down to the kitchen, and I see that Dex turned the fireplace on while I was drifting around the house. It’s not cold in here, but the sliding doors are still open, so there’s a light chill to the air. The flames flicker silently, casting gentle firelight onto the plush carpet, and I’m momentarily distracted by the idea of straddling Dex on that rug, so I don’t hear what he says until he calls my name.
“Nora?”
“Hmm?”
Turning, I find him standing next to the refrigerator, both doors open wide. Bare feet plodding quietly across the floor, I move closer and look into the fridge only to find it . . .
“It’s empty,” I say.
There’s a half-full bottle of red wine, some past-prime heads of lettuce, and a collection of condiments in the doors. I couldn’t even scrounge something together if my life depended on it.
Quirking an eyebrow, I whip around to look at him. “Is this all you have?”
“There’s pasta in the cabinet,” he says, running one hand through his blond hair and pointing with the other. At my look, he shrugs. “I don’t cook much.”
I may be irritated if it were anyone else, but it’s him, and I can only shake my head and laugh. “All right, well, we’ll need to pick something up, then. Unless you wanna get takeout?”
He shakes his head. “Can you make pancakes again?”
My eyes widen, and something in my chest grows warm. “Y-yeah,” I say, closing the refrigerator doors. “That’s easy. Are you sure you don’t want something else?”
“I’m sure.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the Rover’s key fob. It dangles from his finger, looking sleek and expensive and intimidating. Dex’s smile is playful as he holds it out to me. “You can drive.”
chapter 20
“ABSOLUTELY NOT.” THE WORDS SLIP out before I can stop them.
Dex arches a brow. “Why?”
“Because that car is probably more expensive than my condo.”
He rolls his eyes. “Not quite. And so what?”
