Page 101 of The Invitation
Waffles growls, biting my shoelace and pulling it. He jerks it and twists his head back and forth like he’s trying to kill it.
“Hey,” I say, bending to his level.
He crouches to the ground, my shoelace still in his mouth.
“You’re really strong,” I say, playing to his pride. “Look at how ferocious you are.”
All of a sudden, he stands, drops the shoelace, and leaps from where he’s crouched right into my lap. I catch him but lose my balance. Thankfully, Ripley catches me before I fall flat on my back.
Waffles puts his paws on my chest and licks my face.
“We’re still working on manners,” Ripley says, sighing.
“It’s okay.” I set the puppy on the floor. “Do you have a ball? Go get your ball.”
He whizzes down the hallway as if he understands what I’m saying.What a smartie.
I get to my feet with Ripley’s arm around my waist. I slip off my shoes, and then let him take me by the hand.
He shows me his immaculate chef’s kitchen with—as I suspected—an amazing view. From the window, I check out the pool and outdoor barbecue area that looks to be straight from a magazine. We pass through a dining room big enough to throw a party with a small army, an office, and a game room. Then we make our way up the stairs, Waffles leading the pack with his ball in his mouth.
Ripley’s home isn’t at all what I’d pictured in my mind when I imagined where he’d live. It’s clean and bright with lots of natural light. The decor is minimal and tasteful. There are pictures of his family—none of his father—and baskets of Waffles’s toys in almost every room.
Talk about a spoiled dog.
Talk about a swoon-worthy owner.
Ripley’s home is quiet and comfortable, yet lived in.
It’s the epitome of my dream home.
The thought makes me smile.
“Tate uses that room when he stays here,” Ripley says, pointing at a closed door on our left. “He used to hang out here a lot—not as much anymore. But instead of driving when it’s late and he’s had a few drinks, it’s easier for him just to crash at my house.”
“Smart.”
Ripley pulls me closer to him. “Those two doors are guest rooms. Every bedroom has a bathroom.” We make our way down the hall. “There are three bedrooms in the basement, too.”
“You have more square footage in bathrooms than I do in my entire townhouse.”
He grins. “I don’t really know what to say to that.”
“You don’t have to say anything. I was just commenting.”
Waffles runs ahead of us and scratches on the door at the end. He hops in a circle when we don’t get there fast enough.
Ripley then opens the door to the primary suite. “This is my room.”
I step inside a small sitting area with a midnight-blue sofa, two fluffy chairs, and a small table. An arched doorway leads into a larger room—Ripley’s bedroom.
A king-sized, four-poster bed is covered with a fluffy white comforter, and there are more pillows than I can count lining the headboard. A fireplace takes up much of the way across from the bed, and a television screen hangs from the ceiling just above it.
“Nice room,” I say, peeking into the bathroom. “Did you design this?”
He leans against the doorway while I inspect the clawfoot bathtub situated inside an expansive shower with showerheads that befuddle me. There are two sinks. Brass hardware. In the corner is a sauna next to a linen closet.
“I had a hand in the design,” he says. “There were things I wanted to be sure made it into the final product, but I didn’t obsess about every little detail. Stuff can be changed.”
