Page 17 of Pucks, Lies, and Sticktape

“You’re not buying it,” he countered easily, watching the way her lips parted slightly in protest. “Let me decide what’s in my price range. Let’s just look. Looking is free.”

His finger pressed the trackpad before she could argue further. The listing opened, filling the screen with images of warmth and possibility. He tossed her a quick glance, catching the way she exhaled sharply, her resistance crumbling in real time.

“See?” he murmured, his voice softer now. “Free to look…” Then he paused, breath catching in his throat. “Oh…”

Beside him, Jeannie inhaled a sharp, breathy sound that sent a ripple of something electric down his spine.

This wasthehouse.

The photos unfolded like a dream. The living room, with its honey-warm wooden floors, drew them in first. A grand fireplace stood as its centerpiece, flanked by an entire wall of windows that stretched to the ceiling, flooding the space with golden light. Beyond the glass, a tiny backyard spread out in perfect serenity—brick pavers forming a quaint seating area, a low stone wall encircling it like an embrace. And just past that…

A breathtaking drop.

A cliff overlooked a winding river below, its waters glistening under the light. It was the kind of view that made a man stop and wonder if he had been searching for something all along, only to find it waiting for him in a photograph.

Matthieu barely noticed Jeannie inching closer, her shoulder brushing against his as he scrolled.

The kitchen was an extension of the old-world charm, a perfect blend of rustic stone and sleek modernity. An island divided the space, beckoning for quiet mornings and late-night conversations over cups of coffee. Stainless steel appliances gleamed, but it was the character—the soul of the house—that called to him.

He clicked through each photo slowly, methodically, searching for something—anything—to be wrong with the place. But every new image only solidified the feeling that had begun to take root inside him.

And then?—

The library.

The moment it filled the screen, Jeannie stiffened beside him. He could hear the way she swallowed, the near-silent hitch of breath she was trying to hide.

It was magnificent. Dark wooden shelves stretched floor to ceiling, lined with intricate moldings, waiting to be filled with stories and secrets. A ladder on brass rails stood ready to glide across the space, a single inviting chair positioned near the tall window that overlooked the river. It wasn’t just a library. It was a sanctuary.

Matthieu turned his head slightly, watching Jeannie from the corner of his eye. “What do you think?” His voice was quiet, probing, heavy with meaning.

She hesitated. When she finally spoke, her voice was softer than before. “It’s lovely—because it’s expensive.”

“That’s not the reason it’s lovely,” he chuckled, shaking his head at her stubbornness. There was a hint of amusement in his voice, but also something else—something heavier.

She wasn’t wrong. This was a house that could change things.

“Can you see us celebrating Christmas there together?” he asked, testing the waters, watching her closely.

Jeannie pressed her lips together, something guilty flickering across her face.

Matthieu’s chest tightened.

“Is that a yes?” He smirked, trying to keep the moment light even as his pulse quickened. “Because I like it. And it’s in the location we were already looking at.”

“Matthieu…”

“Would you like to live there—with me?”

The question hung between them, weighty, undeniable.

Jeannie inhaled, eyes searching his. “Can I pay you rent so I can help with the cost?” she countered warily.

His brow furrowed. Of all the things she could have said, that was not the response he had expected.

“No.” His answer was immediate, firm. Then, softer, almost disbelieving, “My wife isn’t going to help pay the rent.”

“I’m not your wife. We barely know each other.”

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