Page 24 of My Husband Problem

Declan steps into the room. “Hi, Oscar.”

Oscar looks over at him and hisses.

Declan stops in his tracks.

I stroke my hand from Oscar’s head down his back to his tail. He arches into my touch, rubbing his face against my hip, his purr starting up.

“He was a stray who started coming up onto the front porch every night last fall. It took several weeks before he stopped hissing at me and let me touch him, but I fed him every night and put out a cat house for shelter. I intended to slowly win him over and bring him inside, but then one night I noticed he was limping. That was it. I scooped him up and brought him inside. He’s been here with me ever since.”

Oscar meows again and paces to the chair on the opposite side of the table.

I know exactly what he wants, and I’m certain Declan is going to roll his eyes at this.

I reach over and take the cloth sling from the back of the chair, looping it over my head and threading one arm through it. Oscar comes forward with a softmurrand puts both paws up on my chest. I gather him close, lifting him up against my chest, then tucking him into the sling.

I arrange the material around him, and he settles into what is supposed to be a newborn baby carrier. It keeps him against my torso, right where he wants to be held, but allows me to have my hands free.

His purr is deep and loud, and he rubs his cheek against my neck.

I look up to find Declan staring at us.

“I’ll show you around the house,” I say without commenting on my very clingy cat, who would, if I let him, spend every minute of every day in exactly this position.

Declan doesn’t say anything. He just nods.

I gesture at the kitchen. “Pretty obvious what everything is in here. Dig for whatever you want. If it’s not here…”

“I can get what I need. I’m not worried, Astrid.”

Right. He’s the epitome of self-sufficient.

I watch him take in the room fully. He was apparently just watching Oscar and me before, but now his dark gaze roams over the room, including the burnt-orange and brown tile, the avocado-green refrigerator and sink, the marigold countertops, and the deep-brown cabinets.

When I first laid eyes on the place, I was appalled by the decor. And immediately told the real estate agent I would take it.

I could imagine Declan’s reaction to the place almost instantly. I don’t think a space could be any more opposite to where he lives than this one, and it would surely guarantee he would never want to stay here.

Declan’s penthouse in Portland is all stainless steel, Marble, polished hardwood, and the color palette from the bedroom to the living room to his office to the kitchen is gray, black, and white.

There is almost no color, very few mementos, and no personality.

But I can’t really judge him.

I grew up in a home that’s very similar. My parents are all about appearance and opulence, and that always takes precedence over anything nostalgic or too expressive.

When I moved to Portland for rehab after my injury, everything was taken care of for me, from my trainers to the apartment I moved into. And the apartment was very similar toDeclan's. It wasn’t on as high a floor or as large, but it was sleek and modern.

Of course, over the years, I've made it my own, with photos, books, and other things that matter to me, and added touches of who I am. But I have still never lived in a place as… colorful… as this house in Rebel.

Originally, I bought it to annoy my husband and to convince him we are a horrible mismatch. But in the ten months that I’ve been here, I have found the house comforting. The earthy colors and fun patterns have grown on me. Now, when I walk into the house, I smile. It’s quirky, over-the-top, and completely different from the world I came from.

It reminds me of the town outside the front door.

And I’m falling in love with it.

And I realized that I don’t really care what Declan thinks.

Oh sure, if it makes him run screaming back to Portland, great.