Page 28 of Between the Lines

He stops rustling the bags and turns his attention to me, making me feel like a bug under a microscope.

“You couldn’t see out your back window. I didn’t want you to feel unsafe,” he says, no emotion, just logic.

“Oh, right.” I cross my arms over my chest and tilt my head towards the cottage. “Second question, is the rental a guesthouse or . . . ?”

I mean obviously it is, but I’m trying to wrap my head around everything.

“Yeah, technically,” he replies, shoulders squared towards me.

“So who lives in that monstrosity then?” I ask, eyeing the gorgeous home that belongs on the cover of Southern Living magazine.

A lush layered garden trims the back side of the house, and bumblebees and birds buzz around, creating a fairy-tale oasis.

His gray eyes scan the home over my shoulder before landing back on me.

“I do.”

My mouth falls wide open as Caden fists two large black bags from the trunk, one in each hand, and heads towards the guesthouse. My rubber flip-flops smack the stone pathway as I take unsteady steps behind him.

“Excuse me, come again?” I croak out. “You live there?”

I’d pictured him in some sterile city loft . . . not this.

He glances over his shoulder at me with intense gray eyes before pushing the guesthouse’s front door open with his large shoulder. “Last time I checked, yes.”

I follow on his heels, wanting to reach out and shake him and force him to explain everything.

But then I take in the guesthouse, and all my thoughts slam to a halt.

Creamy off-white walls surround me—not a scuff mark or nail hole in sight. No stacks of books on the floor, or collected knickknacks on every surface, just light wood floors spanning the bright, open space. If I didn’t see the green grounds outside, I would think I’m in a beach house, with the calming airy atmosphere in here.

I turn, facing floor-to-ceiling windows that give a view of the crystal-blue swimming pool. The glass is miraculously streak-free. Daisy is going to smudge those up real quick.

The living room opens right into a little kitchen with pale blue cabinets and a marble island long enough I could lie on it. I squeeze my fingers together, because this isn’t real. Any moment I’ll wake up, I’m sure of it.

A thud brings me back to reality. Caden drops the bags next to the sectional sofa—a tan linen sofa as deep and billowy as a cloud.

He leaves without another word—either oblivious to my distress or a master at ignoring people.

“Did you not think it was an important detail to tell me that I was practically moving in with you?” I ask, chasing him outside.

He squares off in front of me on the stone path between the guesthouse and driveway. I nearly slam into his wall of a chest.

“Are you okay, Fia? You seem a bit flustered?” He narrows his eyes, evading my question.

I am flustered.

I groan and block him from taking another step. “I mean, you kind of lied to me.”

Caden is steady and calm. I fight the childish urge to push him into the nearby glittering pool.

“I didn’t lie,” he replies even toned. “I told you I had a property that I’d finished furnishing.”

I rack my brain, thinking about the specifics in our previous conversation.

He did say that, and I didn’t ask enough questions—that’s on me. But still.

He lets out a sigh, tilting his head. “Listen, I tried to find another place for you, but you needed something last minute. This was the best solution.”