Page 28 of Trash the Dress

She spins in my foyer, taking in the kitchen behind us and the living room to the left. My house is very airy and open…lots of natural light pours in from my floor-to-ceiling windows. I watch as she appreciates the space as an interior designer. Her gaze eventually lands on my fireplace.

“Zander, your house is amazing. How long have you lived here?” she asks.

“Six years,” I answer, shoving my hands in my pockets as I watch her admiring the space I’ve called home for the better part of a decade and wondering what she truly thinks with her eye of interior design.

“Did you build, or buy already built?”

I clear my throat, attempting to shove the memories of that time back to hell where they belong. “Built it.”

Her blue gaze finally lands on me once more. “It’s great.”

I nod in acknowledgment. “It might be a little too bachelor-like for you, but we can change some things to make it feel homier if you want.”

She shows me a tight smile before answering. “Are you sure about me…us staying here some? I don’t want to impose.” She drops a hand to her flat abdomen.

“You’re carrying my child for heaven’s sake. Having you stay here isn’t an imposition. It’s practical,” I grit out a little too coldly.

I instantly regret my tone and choice of words when she seems to shrink in on herself. I want them here so I can help her and be there for our child. My offer is sincere, I just need to make sure the wall stays firmly in place to separate us, but I didn’t mean to make this sound so impersonal…like a business deal.

She swallows hard and I swear her bottom lip quivers. I move forward to comfort her but stop when I realize how confusing that would be.

She chews the same lip for a heartbeat. “Can you show me the rest?”

“Sure. Follow me.”

I give her the tour of my twenty-five-hundred-square-foot house. I have two other guest rooms to choose from, but I show her the one closest to mine and how it’s big enough for a crib and a rocking chair along with the king-sized bed and other furniture it already houses. It has its own bathroom and walk-in closet.

When we reach my closed office door, I feel the need to keep this one room private…just for me. “This is my personal office, and it stays closed. This is the only room I prefer to stay that way. The rest of the house is fair game. Make yourself at home,” I say, hoping she doesn’t think I’m some weirdo hiding who knows what.

She nods. “Of course. I understand,” she says as she stares at the door handle.

We move further into the house, and I show her the master suite. I may be a bachelor, but being a former artist, I can’t stand clutter and things being in a state of disarray. My bedroom is neat and almost as cold as my heart. The bed in here isn’t the same one from when Vivian was here. It was a bit dramatic, but I lit it on fire…outside away from anything else it could touch obviously.

No, the bed in this room has been slept in by yours truly—alone. I don’t bring women here to hook up. This house hasalready been tarnished enough, I never wanted to add more. But Scarlett and the baby…that’s different. It’s not like she’ll be in here in this room with me anyway.

I watch her blue eyes roam over my room and land on my bed with its dark gray comforter and black sheet and pillows. No hint of a woman’s touch anywhere, because there isn’t. She does find a picture hanging on my wall. To my surprise she walks over and touches the frame. Then she turns her blue gaze on me.

“It’s beautiful and tortured all at the same time, like the artist,” she says as she pulls her hand away and crosses her arms.

I swallow, not entirely sure how she knows I took it, but I don’t comment. She walks past me and exits my bedroom. I glance at the picture I took right after my failed wedding day. I was sitting on the porch and a storm rolled in from the west. I watched the brilliant flashes of lightning and heard the booming thunder. I grabbed my camera and started snapping.

I had one of the images blown up that I felt represented my emotions at the time and I framed it. It’s on my wall as a reminder of a place I never want to end up again. She described it well—it’s both beautiful and tortured. But most storms seem that way.

When I leave my room to find her, she’s down the hall and back in the kitchen. “Will it work for you? The room, I mean.”

She faces me while leaning on my kitchen counter. “It would more than work, but this isn’t something you need to do. We can figure something else out,” she says.

This time I can’t quite make myself stop. I walk closer and tip her chin up. “I won’t make you stay here, but this can work if you don’t overthink things.”

“What does that mean, Zander? What happens when I start dating again? Or if you decide to date, or at the very least decide to bring someone home from time to time?”

The very idea of another man touching her, especially while she’s carrying my child makes me angry in ways I have no right to be. I clench my teeth at the thought and drop her chin from my grip.

“I don’t date, Scarlett. But as far as a ‘hook-up,’ if that’s what you’re implying, I wouldn’t parade someone in and out of here in front of you or our child.” I hope I’m making myself clear. I don’t really hook up with women as it is. On the rare occasion I have, it’s never here. But I sure as hell wouldn’t do it in her presence. And I wouldn’t subject a child to women popping in and out. Thoughts of another man with her or my child aren’t pleasant either. But I have no control over what she will eventually choose to do with her personal life if it doesn’t put our child’s well-being at risk, and that’s not something I think she’d ever do.

She stares at me for a few heartbeats and finally speaks. “My first appointment with Dr. Ray is in two weeks. How about I bring my stuff and stay a few days then? We can see how it goes.”

“Sounds fair,” I answer.

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