Speak of the devil …
“Come on, Murph.” I pat my thigh and he hops off the bed, following me downstairs. I need to let him outside before Robert gets here, and then I’m locking him in his kennel—for his own protection.
Not that I don’t trust Sutter, but God forbid, if Murphy got lost or something, I wouldn’t count on Sutter to do me any favors. I’d rather have him safe and sound and come home to find him exactly where I left him.
Heading downstairs, I turn the corner by the door and nearly smack into the man of the hour.
“Hey,” I say, tucking a blonde wave behind my ear.
His skin is a sun-kissed shade of bronze, his dirty blond hair painted in natural highlights. The white shirt, which reads ALCOTT ELECTRIC, has a slash down the front, exposing the taut ripple of his upper abs.
Murphy scratches at my leg for me to pick him up, but I already lint-rolled this dress for a solid ten minutes earlier and I’m not about to do it again since my date will be here soon.
Our eyes hold, but Sutter stays silent. I have no idea if he hates me for this morning or if he’s still assessing my prowess. Judging by the slight squint on his face, I’m guessing a combination of both.
“O … kay then,” I say, stepping around him. “Come on, Murph, let’s go outside.”
My dog trots in step with me and we head to the back sliding door, moving out to the patio.
The backyard is tiny, microscopic almost, but it’s surrounded by trees and a faded wooden privacy fence, and you can’t hear traffic or even neighbors.
It’s cozy.
Nothing like Gram’s elaborate estate or the comfortably generous home I grew up in next to Nick.
Leaning against a painted banister, I wait for my dog to do his thing before checking the time.
Robert should be here any minute.
My heart skips a beat when I try to picture that initial meeting—the first time you see someone after you spent an entire afternoon getting ready. The joining of two anticipatory stares. The intersection of two breathless smiles.
I also simply love dating.
I love meeting new people.
I love networking and making connections, especially when those connections could possibly lead to future opportunities.
This is my jam, my element.
This is what I do.
Murphy trots back to the patio and we head inside. I take a seat on the cognac leather sofa, crossing my legs and inspecting my DIY manicure for any chips or scratches.
All good.
Glancing out the window, I count six cars passing before I decide to run upstairs and locate my vintage Cartier bracelet—a good luck gift from Gram on my sixteenth birthday.
Robert is probably one of the most connected guys to ever ask me out. His resume is a laundry list a mile long, filled with impressive names and blockbuster hits. But aside from the professional advantage that would come with dating him, he’s handsome and kind.
Climbing the stairs, I stride to my room and close the door as I crouch beside my suitcase to search the pockets for my jewelry case.
I have every intention of getting organized this weekend, but I need to get some boxes and things to store Nick’s belongings. The guy asked me to move into his room, but he left it just the way it was—probably only taking with him an armful of wrinkled clothes in a giant suitcase.
His posters and pictures and guitar picks and coffee-stained notebooks are still littered around the room, exactly how he had them.
I even found an empty Old Milwaukee can under his bed.
Oh, Nick …
It only takes a few more tries, but I manage to find my bracelet and the key that unlocks it, and a moment later, I’m corralling Murphy to his kennel and heading back downstairs to wait for my date.
The scent of men’s body wash mixes with humid air and fills the stairway, which tells me Sutter’s taken his post-work shower—which I’m learning is his thing.
Part of me feels the urge to apologize for this morning. I can’t imagine starting your day with a lukewarm shower courtesy of some random girl who’s living with you is the best way to kick things off …
Now I kind of feel bad, but at the time I felt vindicated.
With a hand on my hip and my heels clicking against the hardwood, I go to the kitchen, following the sound of the slamming fridge door and the pop and hiss of a bottle of beer.
“Hey,” I say. “I’m sorry—for this morning. I shouldn’t have used all the hot water.”
He takes a swig, eyes dragging the length of me.
“But seriously, we need to get along and respect each other,” I say. “Otherwise the next six months are going to be—”
“—you should probably take that off.” Sutter’s voice is monotone and he takes another drink.