Page 95 of The Proposal
He grins. The sight of his sweet, simple smile warms my heart.
“If it makes you feel any better, I’m a little nervous, too,” I say. “Think about this from my perspective. I’m going to be in your house.”
“Our house.”
“With your stuff.”
“Our stuff.”
“And I won’t know where anything is, or if I should be in a certain room, or where to put my stuff. Truth be told, I didn’t think about the details of this until now. And it’s a little too late to do anything about it.”
He slips his hand off the gear shifter and takes my hand in his. He laces our fingers together and gives them a gentle squeeze.
“If you don’t know where something is, ask,” he says. “Or just look for it and put it wherever you want. As far as rooms go—you can go wherever you want. Snoop away.”
I laugh.
“Astrid has organized my closet so you can put your clothes and things there with mine,” he continues. “I honestly don’t have a ton of stuff. She’s always on my ass to get this or that, but I never do. I lived a bachelor life in Australia and didn’t want to haul what I did have all over the world. It didn’t make a lot of sense.”
He pulls onto a quiet street lined with trees. The car slows, the engine roaring as it winds down. We’re not on the street long when we pull up to a gate. Renn rolls down his window and waves to a man in a security booth.
“Hey, Rodger,” Renn says.
“Good day, Mr. Brewer. Welcome home, sir.”
“Thank you. I’d like you to meet my wife, Blakely.” He looks at me over his shoulder. “Blakely, this is Rodger.”
“Hello,” I say.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Brewer. And congratulations.”
I blush. “Thank you.”
“I will have Astrid bring you the information you need to place my wife on the approved entry list,” Renn says.
“Very well.” The gates swing open. “Have a good day, sir.”
“It was nice to meet you, Rodger,” I say, waving.
“You also, ma’am.”
Renn rolls up his window and creeps into the neighborhood on the other side of the iron fence.
Massive estates are sprinkled to my left and right. Each is more impressive than the next. Fountains and luxury cars, gardeners tending intricate gardens, and maids sweeping steps—a world I’ve never seen before.
Brock has always lived in fancy communities. I’ve teased him about it mercilessly. And I don’t live in a bad area by any means, thanks to my brother’s insistence on housing in well-to-do areas. But well-to-do or not, none of those places are anything like this.
“Bianca and Ripley live in Four Oaks, too.” He looks at me. “That’s the name of this community.”
“I see.”
“It’s a little uptight for me. But I needed a place to stay, and I liked the house, and it was close to my family. In retrospect, might’ve been a bad plan. It makes him feel like they have the right to be nosy.”
I smile at him.
“This is it,” he says, pulling into a long brick driveway.
“Wow. Renn.” I gulp. “This is your house?”
