Page 21 of One Wrong Move

“Charming,” he says. “Come on, Harp. Open the door.”

“You’re being very domineering right now. And hypercritical,” I say. But I put the key into the lock anyway. “I can hear it in your tone.”

“Good. I’m not doing anything to hide it.”

“No, that’s patently clear,” I mutter. I push open the door to my tiny, horrible room. I’ve hated it since I moved in. It’s furnished, but that’s a generous word for the things my landlady had left behind. The bed is a squeaky metal mess. The small desk that functions as a dining table sits crooked. Although fully functioning, the kitchenette is minuscule, and it also has a mildew issue that makes it less than enticing to use.

Nate stands in the doorway, taking it all in.

“Don’t look at it like that,” I tell him. “Don’t make me defend this place because I really don’t want to. But like I said, it’s temporary.”

“Temporary,” he repeats. “You’ve been living here since you moved to London?”

“Yes.”

His expression darkens further. “Why haven’t you unpacked?”

I look at my suitcase, zipped up and lying on top of a small bench in the corner. Away from walls and cushioned furniture.

“Because,” I say, and this one hurts to get out, “I’m worried there might be bed bugs here.” I glance at him and spot a horrified expression on his face. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m only concerned that it’s a possibility. And I’m looking for another place to live.”

“Harper,” he says.

“Look, not everyone can drive sports cars and live in… in… whatever trillion-dollar apartment you have. This works! It’s not great, but it’s just until I land on my feet. Housing in London isn’t cheap.” My cheeks are flaming with color.

Just as in New York, the housing here is scarce and expensive. Except in New York, I was a master’s student and lived in a dorm. Later, I moved in with Dean, and at his place, my rent was nominal.

Things are different now. I want them to be different now, but that has come with some adjustments.

“I live in a townhouse, not an apartment.” His tone comes across as distracted as his gaze travels around the tiny studio. Outside the window, police sirens start to wail. The sound makes me wince.

“Very pretty park,” I remind him, “and it’s right down the street.”

“Harper, I don’t?—”

“Okay, it’s not that pretty. But it has a pond and plenty of ducks,” I say quickly. “Please, just stop looking at this place like you’re judging me.”

“I will. If you pack your things.”

“What?”

“Get packed. I’m taking you to my place.”

“You can’t be serious.” I stare at him, and he stares right back at me, eyes steady. There’s not a trace of humor on his normally smiling face. “I’m not spending the night at your townhouse.”

“No,” he agrees, “because it won’t be just one night. This place is dingy, unsanitary, and unsafe in about fourteen different ways. You’re not staying here.”

“This is my home,” I say. The statement falls flat in this shithole of a room. I definitely don’t think of this place as home. But I’ll be damned if he’s the one who gets to decide where I live. I’m the one who does.

“Harper, I have a townhouse in Kensington. It’s a short walk from your gallery,” he says in a firm voice. “There’s a guest room. You’ll have your own space, your own bathroom. Shower with no mildew. Certainly no bed bugs.”

“I can’t live with you.”

“Why not?” he asks. His gaze falls to the window, and a frown appears on his face again. “This place isn’t safe. And I have the room.”

“You’re being crazy. That would never work. How would…? Come on, Nate. You don’t really mean this.”

“I’m dead serious,” he says. Then, he sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “You’ve known me for four, almost five years. I have a huge house. You’ll have a key and your own floor. It’s free, it’s comfortable, and closer to your work.”

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