Page 128 of Heroes & Hitmen
“Aren’t we going to the packhouse?” I ask, brow furrowing in confusion.
“Nope,” he says, shutting off the engine and giving me thatI-know-something-you-don’tgrin. “Better.”
I narrow my eyes, suspicious, and he laughs to himself as he gets out of the truck, rounding the hood and coming over to open my door for me. He takes my hand like the gentleman he definitely isn’t, and now I’m evenmoresuspicious.
The scent of cedar and fresh-cut grass hits me hard as I allow him to lead me up the path toward the unfamiliar house. Ares pauses at the front steps, wrapping his arms around me and kissing the top of my head.
“Welcome home.”
“What?” I blurt, pushing him back and blinking up at him.
“Take a look,” he prompts.
I do, taking in the wrap-around porch, the shutters, the planter boxes– every little thing I once described in my ridiculousdream houselist.
Before I can react, Ares sweeps me off my feet– literally, like a damn romcom– and carries me up the front steps.
“Put me down!” I giggle, kicking my feet in protest.
He doesn’t. He opens the door and carries me over the threshold, kissing me madly before setting me down on my feet again.
Inside, sunlight spills through massive windows onto wide-plank floors. The living room is lined with built-in shelves already filled with my books. Cozy throw blankets drape over the plush chairs and sofa, and the massive window at the back of the house comes with a view so perfect it looks photoshopped.
I turn back toward Ares, still trying to take in the scale of it, the fact that this isn’t a dream I’ll wake up from. He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms folded, watching me like he’s memorizing the moment.
“Well?” he drawls, a sly grin tugging at his mouth. “What do you think, babe?”
Before I even register the movement, I’m crossing the room andlaunching myself at him. “It’s perfect,” I gush, arms winding tight around his neck as I pepper kisses across his jaw and cheek.
He laughs, sweeping me up and carrying me into the kitchen. Setting me on the edge of a gleaming quartz island, he steps back like he’s unveiling the next surprise, and I glance around to take it all in. Stainless steel appliances catch the sunlight, my pink apron hangs from a hook, and on the counter next to me, an artfully arranged plate of cupcakes is waiting to be devoured.
I glance from the cupcakes back to him, one brow arched.
“Figured the first thing you’d want to do is sample the local goods,” he says, nodding toward the plate. “They’re from a place over in Westfield.”
“You’re not gonna give me a lecture about sugar for breakfast?” I tease as I shamelessly reach for one.
“Not today.” His smirk deepens, but there’s something softer behind it– like he’s savoring the fact that he can finally give me this.
My mouth is already watering as I peel back the wrapper. “Did you seriously do all this?” I ask, waving the cupcake at the kitchen, the shelves, the sunlight flooding the whole damn place.
He gives a lazy shrug, as if we’re not standing in a literal dream “I mean, technically I paid people to do most of it. But yeah. Had it built. Figured if you were gonna move across the country for me, you deserved a house that doesn’t suck.”
I take a bite, the frosting sweet and rich on my tongue. “Considering where we came from, you realize the bar fornotsucking is really, really low, right?” I murmur around the cake in my mouth.
“I aim high,” he grins.
I polish off the cupcake in too few bites, brushing crumbs from my palms before slipping down from the counter. The rest of the house pulls me forward like a magnet. I trail my fingers along the smooth railing of the stairs, peek into rooms painted in warm earth tones.
There’s a dining room with a long table just begging to host family dinners loud enough to shake the walls. A mudroom with sturdy hooks for coats and shelves for shoes– the kind of everyday details that make a place feel lived in. Upstairs, the bedroom is twice the size of the one in our old apartment and smells faintly of lavender and new paint. The bed is covered in a comforter so thick it could double as a mattress.
When I turn, Ares is in the doorway, hands tucked into hispockets, watching me with that smug expression that always gives him away.
“You want the tour?” he asks, eyebrows raised.
“Pretty sure I just gave myself one,” I say, flopping backwards onto the bed and testing its bounce.
He crosses the room and sits beside me, the mattress dipping under his weight. For a moment, he just lets the silence settle between us. Then, almost like he’s tossing out an afterthought, he says, “Got you a meeting with theAlliance Gazettetomorrow morning. Editor’s a friend of my mom’s, but don’t hold that against him. He needs a reporter, and I think you’d be perfect for the job.”
