Page 12 of The Broker

She laughed softly. “It’s cool. I know you just moved in.” She ducked under my arm and stepped inside. “I’m not scared of some boxes or some—”

Charlotte pulled to a stop, and I didn’t need to follow her gaze to figure out what she was looking at. I hadn’t lied. My house was a fucking mess. There were open boxes and packing paper strewn about because I’d done a shitty job of labeling stuff, and nearly every day I’d had to cut one open and rummage through the contents, searching for something.

And there were large, empty boxes, and piles of plastic shipping bags stacked where a dining table was supposed to go, because I hadn’t bought one yet.

“This place is a lot bigger than my last one,” I said quickly. “I’m still working on putting together some of my new furniture.”

Judy hadn’t lied. It was stunning how fucking messy moving could be.

Charlotte was tense as she took in the chaos. I got the terrible feeling she was second guessing her decision to come home with me.

“This room is overwhelming,” I announced. “Let’s go into the kitchen. It’s... better in there.”

She followed me through the short hallway and let out a breath, like she hadn’t been able to breathe in the entryway.

What I had said was true, that it was better in the kitchen, but it wasn’t necessarily good. My mom had helped me one night this week, focusing all her effort on the kitchen, so most things were put away. There were still a few open boxes on my kitchen table, though, and some dirty dishes in the sink.

And of course, nothing was hung on the walls. The one painting I had that would work in here was leaning against the wall beside the pantry.

Charlotte scanned the room, and I didn’t miss the way she eyed the dishes from my dinner last night. When she set her hands on the counter of the island, I got the weird feeling she’d done it to stop herself from going over the sink and starting to load the dishwasher.

Was she a clean freak and my place was a major turn-off?

She looked less uncomfortable here in the kitchen than she had in the entryway, at least.

“This is a big kitchen,” she said, her voice echoing under the vaulted ceiling. “Do you like to cook?”

I shrugged. “I don’t mind it.” We fell quiet, giving time for awkwardness to creep in. “You want something to drink?”

As soon as the question was out of my mouth, I regretted it. Did I even have anything to offer her to drink? Thankfully, she shook her head. “How about a tour instead?”

“Sure.” I gestured to the hallway.

For a moment, I was excited to show off my new place, but then reality hit me. The rest of the house was going to just be more of the same—boxes and packing paper strewn everywhere. Why hadn’t I made more of an effort to unpack?

Probably because you just started a new job and it’s fucking overwhelming.

I fumbled my way through the tour, showing off the office, the guest bedroom and the spare bedroom I planned to turn into a home gym. I didn’t realize how much more work I needed to do until she peered into the nearly empty, undecorated rooms one by one.

At least I was strategic about it, saving the best for last. I turned the handle and pushed the door open. “This is the main bedroom.”

It was the room that had sold me on the house. Two thirds the size of my last place, the grand bedroom had a tray ceiling, a built-in bookcase, and a pair of tall windows that flanked the bed.

Which currently was unmade, but I hoped she could see past that and on to its potential.

This room could be sexy.

I just needed her to ignore the chair in the corner that was buried under a week’s worth of dirty laundry.

Charlotte missed nothing. Her throat bobbed with a swallow, and she crossed the room, heading into the ensuite bathroom.

While she explored in there, I hurried to the chair, gathered up the clothes, and chucked them under the bed. It was ridiculous, but my options were limited. My laundry basket, the place where the clothes should have gone, was in my closet, which was through the bathroom.

She’d just finished her walkthrough when I met her in the doorway, struggling to act casual and not to look out of breath. It was wasted, though. She glanced over my shoulder, amused.

“What happen to the clothes that were on that chair?”

I feigned confusion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

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