Page 43 of Take Two

“Me neither,” I reply with a slow shake of my head, still openly staring. “Me neither.”

The siding is a deep, saturated sky blue, set off by crisp white trim framing the windows, wrapping the porch columns, and running clean along the roofline. Wide steps climb from the driveway up toward a front porch that stretches across the full face of the house, and warm amber light glows behind the windows as though the place has been waiting quietly for someone to come home. Flower boxes sit beneath the porch railing, full and unhurried from summer, spilling color down against the painted wood. The whole thing manages to look genuinely impressive without appearing to try even slightly. That contrast throws me more than anything else. I had prepared for a statement. For curated minimalism or high-rise glass or at the very least something architectural designed to signal money. This home feels like none of those things. It feels like a cozy invitation extended to no one in particular, simply left open on the off chance someone needed it.

Jamie climbs out first and starts toward the porch, keys already in hand. Cameron shuts his door behind me and pauses near the bottom of the steps, his gaze moving quietly over the house, then the street, then the windows, and finally the neighboring driveways with the practiced, unhurried efficiency I have watched him deploy in a thousand different cities.

“Nice place,” he says to Jamie, his voice carrying no particular inflection.

I look at the porch lights, the restored trim, the blue siding holding its warmth in the early evening light, and feel the word nice fall considerably short of what is standing in front of me. “Nice is doing a lot of heavy lifting as a descriptor, Cam.”

Jamie turns from halfway up the steps, clearly and quietly amused by both of us standing on his driveway having opinions about his house. “You two coming inside, or are we reviewing the property from the driveway all evening?”

I force myself to move, though I am still not entirely sure I have adjusted to the simple fact that Jamie Maxwell lives here, in this house, on this street, surrounded by mature trees and neighbor porches and flower boxes. By the time I reach the bottom step, I notice Cameron has stopped walking altogether.

I glance back at him. “You’re not coming in?”

He shakes his head once. Clean and final.

I look between him and Jamie, waiting for the rest of the sentence, for the condition or the caveat or the security reasoning I can hand back to Jamie as an explanation.

Cameron, naturally, gives me nothing but comfortable silence.

“That’s it?” I ask.

His mouth curves just slightly at the corner. “That’s it.”

“You’re just leaving me here?” Even as the words come out I am aware I’m not worried in the slightest. I know Jamie in a way that makes caution feel somewhat beside the point. If anything, the concern runs in the other direction entirely. I trust Jamie completely. I don’t entirely trust myself.

“I’ve done the background check,” Cameron says, with the calm finality of a man who considers the matter closed.

Jamie snorts from the porch above us. “Should I be worried about what you found?”

“You’re a boy scout,” Cameron replies with a low chuckle, already turning back toward the car, unhurried and entirely unconcerned.

I shake my head, still smiling despite myself, watching him go.

The ease of the whole exchange catches me off guard in a way I don’t immediately know what to do with. Cameron teasing him. Jamie absorbing it without any of the careful social negotiation most people use around my security detail. Nobody performing, nobody managing the moment. For Cameron specifically, that says more than any formal assessment ever could. He wouldn’t leave me somewhere he had questions about. He wouldn’t walk away from someone he hadn’t read thoroughly and quietly decided was exactly what he appeared to be.

Cam opens his car door, then looks back at me one final time, the amusement fully gone now and something more straightforward in its place. “Text me if anything changes.”

“I will.”

He nods once and pulls away from the curb without ceremony.

Jamie waits on the porch until the taillights have disappeared down the street, then turns the key in the lock and pushes the front door open with the ease of someone who has done it ten thousand times without thinking about it.

“Come on,” he says, stepping inside, his voice dropping slightly as the quiet of the house opens up ahead of him. “Before he circles back and decides a second background check from the street is warranted.”

I follow him up the last of the steps and through the door.

The moment I step inside, I understand exactly why Jamie bought the place.

The house feels warm, even though the air conditioning is doing its job to beat the Seattle evening heat. The air carries the faint scent of cedar and vanilla, possibly a candle he burned earlier. This place feels lived in. The original woodwork frames every doorway, polished to a rich shine that somehow makes the modern furniture feel more welcoming rather than less. Restored hardwood floors stretch beneath our feet, and soft lighting spills from table lamps scattered throughout the house instead of the harsh overhead lighting I expected.

It’s not staged, and maybe that was Jamie’s intention all along. I find myself wondering whether he did this himself, sourcing every piece with intention, or whether he handed a designer a vision so precise it translated perfectly onto every wall and surface. If it was the latter, whoever they are, they deserve more than a bonus.

The house simply feels like home.

“Most of the original trim survived,” Jamie says as he closes the front door behind us, his voice carrying easily through the quiet. “The previous owners took pretty good care of it.”