Page 102 of Deceitful Oath

Chapter Forty-Two

Lux

“I can’t wait to see it,” I say happily bouncing in the passenger’s seat of our new, more family-friendly SUV.

“We’re almost there, Tigger,” Rafael says, sticking his arm out and settling his hand on my bump. “Calm down, you’ll rattle the Bean.”

The Bean. Our little nickname for the baby. Our tiny bean.

I settle back into my seat, content with staring out at the scenery flying by. Green pastures filled with wildflowers surround us.

I scream with delight when we pass a herd of cows munching grass by the freeway barrier. Tall, elegant mountains loom in the distance, flecked by groups of dense pines.

“Are you sure you don’t mind living so far outside the city?” he asks for the millionth time, shooting me a concerned look. “You don’t really strike me as a small-town girl, Luxy.”

“I never thought I could be,” I admit, fiddling with the hem of my shirt. “But after everything that happened last month, I would love to spend a few years far, far away from there.”

“If you say so,” he agrees lightly.

“And we always have the townhouse for weekends in the city,” I say quickly, trying to meet him in the middle. I know he doesn’t want to leave the city. He’s doing it for me, which makes me feel all sorts of guilt.

“And I can always bunk up with Enzo in the penthouse if you kick me out for snoring too loud or eating crackers in bed.”

“That too,” I laugh. He turns the car onto a long driveway that leads to a circular stone yard. We hop out of the car and my mouth drops open at the beautiful home in front of us. It’s a historic, fully-restored Victorian house.

My eyes rove over all of the delicious features. From the scalloped shingles to the decorative pillars and spandrels, it’s like a gingerbread house. And it’s pink. I spin around and yelp in surprise as Rafael grabs me by the waist and spins me around.

“Like it?” he whispers in my ear, setting me down.

“Love it,” I confirm, drawing him into a deep kiss right there in the driveway. The realtor pulls up a few minutes later and ushers us inside, giving us a grand tour. We follow her around from room to room, marveling at the original, beautifully restored features.

“And it’s only a five-minute drive from Willowdale,” she continues, leading us to the backyard. “Which is a great little town with independent coffee shops, boutiques, and really great schools.”

“It sounds perfect,” I sigh, my eyes misting over at the image of Rafael pushing little Bean on the hand-carved swing. I can see the three of us climbing up into the treehouse for picnics and midnight stargazing. We can fly kites out here, or chase butterflies—there’s so much space to run.

With this home, and this man beside me, I can give my child the childhood I didn’t have. The one that was ripped away so forcefully and suddenly that I barely had time to grieve. I glance up at Rafael and can almost hear him thinking the same thing.

“Thank you,” he nods at the realtor. “We have a few more homes to look at, but it’ll be hard to top this one.”

“Of course,” she blushes, subtly checking him out. If she didn’t resemble a kind, wholesome grandmother with cotton candy hair, I might have been jealous.

“Take the time you need,” she adds, leading us back out front. “But homes like these rarely sit on the market too long.”

We say our goodbyes and head to our respective cars. Rafael fires up the engine and we glide down the long driveway, the perfect little house getting smaller in my sideview mirror. I feel so sad that I almost cry, but I blame it on the hormones and push the thought away.

It really is the perfect house.

“Next one is just down the road,” Rafael says once we’re back on the main road leading to town. “Then we can grab lunch in town.”

“Sounds good,” I say, rubbing my belly.

The next turn takes us down a short driveway to a smaller, older farmhouse. This one looks like it needs some work, with broken floorboards on the porch and peeling paint on the exterior walls.

“Maybe it’s shockingly nice inside?” Rafael whispers in my ear, laughter in his voice. The grumpy old owner leads us inside, showing us the different rooms.

With every room, my mood deflates. I know this one is more budget-friendly, but I can’t stop thinking of the pink farmhouse.

We walk through an outdated 1970s kitchen, navigating a cramped floorplan. The yard is overgrown with weeds, and pilesof rusted junk are scattered on the sunburned grass. The owner glares at us, arms crossed as we wander around.

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