Page 24 of The Write Choice

I laugh humorlessly. “No. Though not for lack of Jenny trying. That princess room is probably the most expensive one in the entire house.”

She looks around, taking in the space again. “I figured she did that room. Mason’s bed has Ben written all over it.” She looks to me for confirmation, and I nod. She fights a smile as she considers more of the rooms. “Mac had to have a hand in the kitchen. I’m guessing Daniel was probably pretty useless until someone told him what to do.”

I chuckle. “Mac kept him busy.”

She smirks, too, still looking around at details she must have missed earlier. I can’t tear my eyes from her.

“She’s good for him,” she says.

“I’m glad he found her,” I agree.

Her eyes finally meet mine, and she tilts her head to the side. “Who did my studio?”

“Me,” I say without hesitation. I spent more time on that room than any other, and Mac told me in no uncertain terms that I should not let on that the idea for it was hers. She insisted I would have gotten there eventually. I appreciate her faith in me.

Katie hugs her knees into her chest, resting the bottom of her feet on the couch cushion. She leans her cheek against them, still looking at me. “I love it,” she says quietly.

“I’m glad,” I whisper back, fighting the urge to brush a stray hair off her cheek.

We stay that way for a moment, then she shakes herself and looks out at the room again, resting her chin on her knees. “Do you have an office?”

“There’s an office space in the basement.”

“Guest room?” She doesn’t meet my eyes when she says it, and the hard set of her shoulders suggests she’s conflicted about asking.

“There’s a guest suite in the basement, too,” I tell her.

She nods, still not meeting my gaze. Suddenly, this normally imposing and self-assured woman looks small and uncertain, hugging her knees close with her shoulders hunched over them. I want to fold her into me and tell her everything is going to be okay. I’m not sure it is, but I’ll make it so for her. I won’t rest until I do.

I swallow hard, steeling myself. “Do you want me in the guest room?”

“No.” Her answer is immediate, and she finally looks at me, her eyes shining. “Maybe? I don’t know.”

Her uncertainty should feel like a blow, but after months of her ire, it actually feels like a balm to my soul. I take a chance and reach my hand to cup her jaw. She lets me, and I pull her head to me, planting a kiss on her forehead, then pulling back to look at her eyes.

“I’ll stay down there until you’re sure,” I say. “I want you to be sure.”

Her gaze falls, and her body sags. I don’t know if that’s the answer she was looking for, but she drags her bottom lip through her teeth and nods, pulling her sleeve over her hand and wiping her eyes with the cuff.

“Okay,” she says, standing. “Well, good night, then.”

“Good night, Katie.” I muster up a little smile that she doesn’t return.

She walks slowly to the stairs, and I watch her the whole way. When she gets there, she pauses and rests a hand on the banister, though she doesn’t turn to look at me.

“You did good, Brandon.” She pauses, then says, “The kids like it.”

She doesn’t need to know about the conversation I had with Mason earlier. She clearly feels conflicted enough as it is, and she doesn’t need the added weight that knowledge will bring, so I just say, “Thanks.”

She nods once, and climbs the stairs, disappearing into the darkness at the top.

Chapter 8

Katie

“What do you think about public school for Mason?” Brandon asks as he sits at the island, sipping his coffee. He’s holding the sticky note I left my to-do list on, his thumb pressing against the first item I wrote down this morning: Register Mason for school. There’s also a stack of private school brochures sitting by his right elbow. We had enrolled Christine in a hybrid daycare/preschool situation before the move, worried we wouldn’t get a spot for the new year otherwise, but Mason’s school has still been up in the air.

I eye him over my shoulder as I scrape my spatula against the pan in front of me, scrambling the eggs that are just starting to cook. “Are we that destitute after you furnished this house?”