Page 19 of Fake As Puck
“Well,” he says finally.
“Well.”
“This is really happening.”
“Thanks for coming out,” he says softly.
I nod. “Thanks for hiring me.” My stomach goes on a rollercoaster ride and then I continue, “Out of the millions you work hard for.”
He glances at me and then his eyes dart to the front door.
We get out of the car, and I follow him through the garage into a mudroom that’s cleaner than my entire apartment. He sets my suitcase down and runs a hand through his hair.
“You want something to drink?” he asks. “I have pretty much everything.”
“Water’s fine.”
He opens the fridge, and I can see what he means. It’s packed like he’s preparing for the apocalypse. Multiple types of juice, fancy water, energy drinks, wine, beer.
“Did you buy out the entire grocery store?” I tease.
He shrugs with a smile. “I wanted options.”
He hands me a bottle of the fancy kind with a French name, and I notice his hands are slightly shaky. He’s nervous. Which is oddly comforting.
“So,” he says, leaning against the counter. “Do you want to see your room?”
“Sure.”
He grabs my suitcase and leads me down a hallway lined with actual art pieces. Not posters, but real paintings that are probably originals. They’re really beautiful. We walk mostly in silence, our footsteps echoing on the hardwood.
“Here,” he says, opening a door at the end of the hall.
I step inside and immediately stop.
The room is... perfect.
Not just clean but thoughtfully arranged. The bed has more pillows than any human could ever need, arranged in a way that looks effortless but probably took him twenty minutes to get right. There’s a small basket on the dresser filled with snacks—good snacks, the kind I actually like. Trail mix with the right ratio of nuts to chocolate. Extra chocolate. Crackers. A bottle of wine that’s definitely not from the grocery store bargain bin.
“West,” I say slowly.
“Yeah?”
“This is really nice. Thank you.” I set my purse down on the bed and immediately regret noticing how expensive the sheets feel under my hands.
“I’ll let you get settled,” he says, backing toward the door. “Dinner in an hour? I was thinking of ordering pizza.”
“Pizza sounds good.”
“Any preferences? Toppings you hate?”
“Just no pineapple. I’m not a monster.”
He grins, and for a second, he looks like the West I remember from when we were kids. Before things got complicated.
“Got it. No pineapple.”
He closes the door behind him, and I’m alone in a room that feels like a luxury hotel suite designed specifically to make me comfortable.
