Page 24 of Wood You Rather?

The blank walls were painted a non-offensive gray-beige color. The kitchen looked fully stocked. There were two small stools at the island and an empty space where a large dining table should be.

The living room was also bare, except for a baby grand piano and a massive leather couch. There were no photos, no decorations, no throw pillows, no area rugs.

The open space was vast, and the view of the mountains was spectacular from the living area. “Did you just move in?” I asked, attempting to be polite.

He shook his head.

“Are you a minimalist? Don’t like furniture?” Who buys this kind of real estate just to sit in an empty house?

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Haven’t bought any.”

“Because…?” I ran my hand along the back of the cognac leather couch. Yup, it was basically butter. Not surprising.

He turned and pinned me with an annoyed glare. Great, I’d been here for seven minutes, and the bickering was beginning.

“Because it’s not necessary. I’m not staying here. This house is an investment and temporary lodging. I don’t need a lot of stuff.”

I could understand that, to a point. “Where’s your TV?”

“I don’t have one.”

“Sorry, what?”

“I don’t watch TV.”

My eye twitched. Doesn’t watch TV? “But—”

He folded his arms. Shit, the flannel shirt looked even sexier now. “It’s perfectly normal,” he groused.

I scrunched up my nose. “If you say so. Let’s get it out in the open now, though. Are you a serial killer? If we’re gonna be roommates, I need to know whether you keep body parts in the freezer. Is this aSilence of the Lambsthing? Because I’m not an actual cop anymore.”

“Are you done?” he growled. “I’m not storing body parts anywhere. And I’m not a serial killer. Though your endless chatter certainly makes me see the appeal.”

“Hilarious. Inability to take a joke—isn’t that one of the top traits on serial killer psychological profiles? Either way, it’s a great movie. We could watch it if you had a TV. Have you seen young Anthony Hopkins? Mmm. He could get it.”

He picked up his pace, headed toward a large set of stairs. “While I’m happy that we’ve cleared that up, how about I show you your room before you get started on the rundown of which real or fictional serial killers you would sleep with?”

“Fine,” I grumbled, following him up the stairs, doing my best to avoid looking at the way his ass filled out his jeans. On the landing, he pointed to the right. “My bedroom, bathroom, and office are down there.” He turned left and started down a long hallway. “The guest rooms are this way. There are three up here and another one on the third floor. Each has its own en suite.”

I gaped as we passed empty room after empty room. He pushed open a door at the end of the hall and held out his arm, gesturing for me to enter. “I ordered some stuff.”

The bedroom was enormous. It had to be bigger than the condo I’d lived in while I was with the state police. The windows were giant, and the view of the mountains was spectacular. Settled along the middle of one wall was a king-size bed on a wrought-iron frame. It was covered with the kind of fluffy white bedspread luxury hotels used and dozens of pillows. A plush armchair with matching ottoman was in one corner, and an ornate dresser with a large mirror was anchored to the opposite wall.

“The door to the left is the walk-in closet,” he said, “and to the right is the bathroom.”

“This is amazing,” I said softly, feeling bad about how I had teased him. The rest of the house was a barren wasteland, but the windows in here were fitted with expensive drapes, and a blue striped area rug warmed the room. That chair looked like the perfect place to curl up and read.

“I’ll order a TV for in here,” he grumbled, wearing an annoyed scowl. “I should have known you’d be one of those women who sits at home alone watching murder shows on Netflix.”

I wheeled around to face him, hands on my hips. “Nope, you’re wrong.”

“Really?” He quirked one eyebrow.

I hated how sexy it made him look.

“Yes. I watchHousewives. Like a fucking lady.”

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