Page 112 of Ice Cold Chemistry
“That’s not an answer.”
“I make four million dollars a year, and I’ve never bought a couch before. Does that help?”
I laugh despite myself, despite the heaviness I’ve been carrying for days. “We can work with that. First things first—what vibe are you going for? Modern? Industrial? Cozy?”
“Yes.”
“Logan.”
“What? I want all of them. Is that not allowed?”
The front door opens, and Weston appears, mattress apparently conquered. Up close, he’s even more imposing—at least six-three, with shoulders that barely fit through the doorframe and a scowl that seems permanently etched into his features. His dark eyes, fringed with lashes, sweep over me with the kind of quick assessment I’ve seen Banks do—almost like he’s cataloging my threat level.
Apparently, I pass, because he addresses me directly.
“Tell him he can’t paint the living room orange.” His voice is deep and a little rough. “He won’t listen to us.”
“I never said orange. I said burnt sienna.”
“That’s orange,” Weston growls.
“It’s a sophisticated orange.”
“It’s still orange.” Weston crosses his arms, and the movement makes his biceps strain against his sleeves. “Orange is for traffic cones and prison jumpsuits. Not living rooms.”
“You have no imagination.”
“I have taste.”
I look between them—Logan with his hopeful puppy eyes, Weston with his arms crossed and murder in his gaze. Behind us, I hear Rhys limp inside, settling onto the arm of the displaced couch with his frozen peas.
Three good-looking guys sharing a townhouse. A golden retriever, a wounded bird, and a grumpy cat. I don’t even want to know what kind of shenanigans they’re going to get into.
“No orange,” I finally say. “But we can do an accent wall in something bold if you want personality. Deep green, maybe. Or navy.”
Logan pumps his fist. “See? Compromise. This is why we needed Winnie.”
Weston grunts—not exactly approval, but not disapproval either—and disappears toward the kitchen. A moment later, I hear the refrigerator open and then close. He returns with three beers, handing one to Logan, one to Rhys, and pausingwhen he gets to me.
“You want one?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
Another grunt. He takes the third beer for himself and leans against the wall, watching as I continue my assessment of the space.
“He’s warming up to me,” Logan says brightly.
“Is he?”
“That grunt was way friendlier than his grunts yesterday. There’s a whole grunt spectrum. You’ll learn it eventually.”
“I’m not sure I want to.”
“Too late. You’re part of the chaos now.” Logan throws an arm around my shoulders. “Welcome to Casa de Chaos. Population: three idiots and one very patient yoga instructor.”
I spend the next hour helping Logan map out a design plan. We walk through the space room by room, and I take notes on my phone—measurements, lighting observations, ideas for furniture placement. Logan is surprisingly receptive to feedback once he understands the logic behind it. He just needs someone to explain why behind things instead of simply telling him no.
Rhys drifts in and out, offering quiet opinions that are usually the best ones. He has a good eye for scale and proportion—when I suggest a sectional for the living room, he points out that the dimensions I’m describing would block the flow to the kitchen. He’s right. I adjust my recommendations.
