Every Kiss(37)

I don’t know what to say about it. It’s not like he’s ever openly discussed his mother with me, and the look on his face tells me it’s not going to happen right now either. “Oh. I guess that’s understandable.”

The door swings wide, and he waits for me to step inside first. Despite its small size, I expected it to look much like his parents’ house. Picture perfect, immaculately decorated. But it’s far from it. It actually looks more like what my house would, if I had one. It’s clean and very minimalistic. There’s not much on the walls, no knick-knacks. Really, the only sign that someone lives here is a bookshelf that’s loaded with family pictures.

No pictures of any children, though. Nor do I see any toys.

He shows me around the other rooms. The kitchen is tidy—not one dish left in the sink—and the dining room doesn’t look used at all. The living room has a rich brown suede couch and sofa, coffee table, two end tables, a flat screen mounted to the wall, and a bookshelf. That’s it. The first room down the hall is an office, which is neatly organized with only a small pile of mail sitting at the corner of the desk. There’s also a nice bathroom across the hall, featuring both a garden tub and built-in tile shower.

Wes steps into the first room and drops my bag on the bed. “Anything you need, just let me know. I wash the bedding weekly, whether anyone sleeps in here or not, so the sheets are clean. If you like a lot of pillows, there’s more in the closet, along with some extra blankets. The closet is mostly empty, so there’s plenty of room if you want to hang any of your clothes. Same goes for the dresser. It’s all yours.” He points over by the window. “There’s a little desk over there, too, if you want to use it to do your homework. Or if you need to spread out a little more, you know where my office is.”

“Thanks. You have a nice place.”

He crosses his arms over his chest. “The tour is over. You’re not going into my room. It’s just . . . weird.”

“Okay,” I deadpan. He thinks he’s being cute by quoting me, so I can play this game, too. But now curiosity is plaguing me. Seeing his bedroom might actually give me some clues into what he’s really like.

“It’s no fun when you don’t play along.” He grabs my hand and drags me across the hall. “My mom is the epitome of the word hostess, and she’d kill me if I didn’t give a proper, inviting tour. This . . .” He sweeps his hand in front of him. “. . . is my bedroom. And I have nothing to hide, so I’m not going to give you the no-touch rule.”

I walk further inside. It’s just as neat as the rest of the house, but it’s cozy. The bed is huge—I’m guessing a king—and it looks like I’d need a step ladder to climb up there. Not that I’m thinking about being in his bed. And I’m really not thinking about him sleeping naked in it. Nope. Not even a little bit.

There’s a bay window on the back wall that looks out into the thick crush of trees behind the house, and an oversized chair faces it. It looks like the perfect place to watch the sun set or read a book. The closet door is standing partially open, and I look back at Wes for permission to go inside. He nods. I flick on the light and it’s like looking at both sides of his split personality. A row of suits is on my left, and jeans and t-shirts are on my right. His shoes are even organized by the same method. It’s a little creepy, but all I can really think about is how much it smells like him in here. It’s like his pheromones are so thick in here, they’re seeping into my skin.

“Do you actually live here?” I come out and find him leaned against the door jamb. “It doesn’t look like anyone does, certainly not a man.”

“Are you implying that men can’t pick up after themselves? You don’t know who my mom is. I don’t leave here in the morning without everything in its place. It’s nice to come home to a clean house after working all day.”

“I wholeheartedly agree. I drive Makenna crazy because I’m so anal about it. But you . . . you surprise me. I’ve been thinking it all along; you’re an enigma.”

“Is that a bad thing?” he asks with one eyebrow raised.

I let out a long sigh. “I haven’t figured that out yet.”

I excuse myself, retreating to my room for a while to do my homework, and I do end up in his office. It’s hard to keep myself on task, knowing that I’m in his house, but I somehow find my rhythm. Even though I hate to do it, there’s something therapeutic about doing homework. It’s not really the act of doing it as much as it is completing it. To have that one thing marked off your internal to-do list. And two long hours later, I close my book, finally finished with the work for one class. Two more to go.