Page 3 of Something Like Shelter

Then there was a violent crack splitting the quiet, followed by the unmistakable rush of water.

Adelaide’s body jerked.

A shrieking cry escaped her.

Somewhere deep in the house, a pipe surrendered.

CHAPTER TWO

Owen

You learned a lot about someone when their house was basically falling apart ever since they bought it.

The first thing that came to mind when I thought about Willa (‘Willow’ on my checks, but she’d introduced herself as Willa to me the first time) was that she was stubborn as hell.

Fine.

The first thing that came to mind was gorgeous. Because there was no way a man didn’t notice that right off the bat.

She was tall and a little willowy, with a sunny, delicate face, full lips, and gorgeous blue eyes. Her hair had changed on and off—sometimes a chestnut brown, sometimes a little more golden or blonde. No matter what shade, though, she was stunning.

But when it came to her house, yeah, she was stubborn. To her own detriment.

Anyone who paid what she must have paid for such a sprawling place shouldn’t be stuck repairing things left and right. But she refused to pack up, buy something else, and sell her money pit to some other sucker.

And, yeah, I easily learned that she had an eye for design and a liking for luxury but cozy fixes.

But I meant the smaller things too.

Like she liked her coffee (and all the various syrups that went with it), took out her ponytail or claw clips all over the house (even, occasionally, in the guest bathroom), liked soft singer-songwriter playlists, and never had spots on her mirrors.

More than that, though, you got to see the changes in their lives.

In Willa’s case, I noticed when there were suddenly two mugs in the sink, when there was a bottle of expensive whiskey next to her wine on the bar cart, then, of course, when those things were suddenly missing again.

I noticed bedroom nightstands covered in tissues.

Then a wastebasket with four pregnancy tests.

Prenatal vitamins on the counter next to her espresso machine.

Baby detergent in the laundry room.

Piles of tiny clothing.

Cribs, changing tables, and swings that needed to be put together.

Eventually, a rounded belly.

All the while, no extra toothbrush in the primary bathroom, no second mug, no men’s clothes in the house, no signs that there was anyone else in the picture but her.

And the baby that was coming.

It had been months since something in Willa’s house needed fixing.

But the call came at the crack of dawn on a Sunday morning.

“I’m so sorry. I know it’s early. And it’s… it’s the weekend, right? I think so. I’m sorry, but—”