Page 14 of The Fangirl and the Crooner

“Thanks,” I say, rushing around to open the trunk for him.

I grab two of the smaller bags while Bram lugs out the suitcases, then he motions for me to precede him toward the house. The crunch of his footsteps behind me hastens my pace, and I hurry up the steps to the front door, swinging it open and stepping aside so he can go in first.

The second I’m inside, the scent of wood––cedar, maybe––surrounds me as it always does when I come here, and my nerves settle. The scent and the coziness of the place is familiar and comforting. I’ve been here a few times when Bram would host our group, but this is the first time I’ve been here with him, alone.

And that thought has my nerves ratcheting up once more.

“You’ve seen the living room, powder room, and the kitchen,” he says, walking toward a hallway on the left I’ve never ventured down. “The room at the end is mine.”

I glance at the closed door at the end of the hall, then turn my attention back to him as he swings the first door on the left wide. Stepping back, he motions for me to enter, and my eyes widen as I get my first look at my new room.

It’s huge, with a giant bed, big, sturdy furniture, a large-screen television hanging on the wall, and it alsohas its very own fireplace. An open door on the right of the room reveals a large closet, and through that…

“This room has its own bathroom?” I ask, awe lacing the words.

Bram chuckles. “I inherited this place from my parents when they passed, and they were the ones who designed and built it. Both bedrooms have an en suite, and there’s another full bath across the hall for guests who stay on the pull out couch in the living room.”

“This is amazing, Bram. Thank you,” I say with meaning, and he just nods like my gratitude makes him uncomfortable.

“Let me know if you need anything. I’ll make some lunch while you get settled,” he says, stepping from the room and closing the door behind him before I can thank him again.

Dropping the bags I’m still holding on the massive bed, I wander into the closet. It’s double the size I need, with lots of shelves, a built-in shoe rack, and even empty hangers waiting for my clothes. Moving all the way through, I step into the bathroom and gasp.

There’s a freestanding, clawfoot tub, a walk-in shower with three heads––including a rain shower head hanging from the ceiling––and a large vanity with dual sinks and several drawers for my things.

And this is just the guest room. I can’t even imagine what the main bedroom and bathroom must look like.

Walking back out into the main area of the room, I fall backward onto the bed. It’s cushy and comfy, and I know I’m going to sleep like the dead in here. My eyes roam across the exposed beams in the ceiling, and Iwonder what Bram’s parents did to be able to afford to build a place such as this.

I shake my head and roll over, burying my face in the soft memory foam pillow. It doesn’t matter. It’s Bram’s home, and I’m only a temporary guest.

Rolling off the mattress, I land on my feet and grab the handle of one of my suitcases and roll it toward the closet. I need to start unpacking. Bram is preparing lunch for us, and I don’t want to make him wait.

Chapter

Ten

Bram

Iwipe down the already-clean counter, looking for anything to keep my hands busy while I wait for Pressley to finish unpacking. The BLT’s I made for lunch are resting on the counter, and I pulled out several bags of chips so she could pick the flavor she wants. And now, I’m cleaning to help fight the urge to go knock on her door and see if she needs anything.

She’ll come out when she’s ready.

I’m repeating the mantra in my head when she suddenly appears, breezing into the kitchen in a pair of snug-fitting pink joggers and a matching cropped hoodie that leaves an inch of skin visible between the two garments. I almost swallow my tongue at the sight of her, but quickly clear my throat, toss the towel aside, and straighten to my full height.

“Something smells delicious,” she says as she moves closer.

“I hope you like BLT’s,” I say, wincing when my voice cracks on the words.

“What’s not to love about bacon?” she shoots back with a teasing wink, and I feel my muscles relax one by one.

“I wasn’t sure what kind of chips you like,” I say, rubbing a hand across the back of my neck while she peruses the large stockpile of chip bags strewn across the counter.

“Sour cream and onion, of course,” she says, swiping the green and white bag and pulling it open.

“Of course,” I repeat. “Those are my favorite, too. What would you like to drink? I have water, orange juice, beer, and a few sodas to choose from.”

“Water is good,” she says, picking up the two plates and carrying them both, along with the bag of chips, to the small table in the breakfast nook.

---