“Hey … Matt.” Something in my voice stopped his wandering hands and lips. “Are you looking at houses?”
“What?” His head came up. “No.”
“Uh, yes.” I reached for the mouse and clicked on the Colo Real Estate tab. A page of Colorado homes loaded.
He glared at the screen.
“Whatever. Just looking.”
At least he didn’t lie and call it research.
A smile quirked my mouth—until I started to study the houses.
“You can’t be serious,” I said.
Matt eased out from under me and plopped me onto the office chair. He stalked to the wall, where he pretended a frame needed straightening.
“I am serious.” He spoke to the painting. “Why can’t I be serious? This place is tiny. You have no real room of your own. It’s like a—”
“‘Six built-in fireplaces,’” I read from the Web page. “‘Experience the grandeur of two-story ceilings, the wine room, wet bar, and—’”
“What’s wrong with—”
“Eight baths!” I shouted over him.
“Better than one.”
“Oh my God. Six bedrooms? Oh here, look at this. There’s a fountain in the driveway. That’s perfectly normal.”
“Looks nice.” His voice tightened.
“Marble floors, gourmet kitchen—ha! A Romeo and Juliet balcony? Is that a thing?”
“What’s wrong with a balcony?”
“These homes are in the millions.”
“The rock and stucco—”
“Right, that one is just a million and a half.” I swiveled to face him. “Look at me.”
He continued adjusting the painting, right a little, left a little. Ignoring me. Like a child. At last, he turned and folded his arms, and he stared at a spot in my vicinity.
“You like Nate’s house,” he said.
“Still? Seriously?”
“Still what?”
“You are still jealous of the way I looked at Nate’s home?”
“His home is nice. These homes are nice.” He jabbed a finger toward the computer. “I don’t see why we can’t even consider living somewhere nice and spacious.”
Weeks’ worth of frustration and confusion boiled over. I hurtled out of the chair and headed for the door. “And I’m not even sure I want to buy a home with someone who practically proposed to me on national television and hasn’t breathed a word about it since!”
I stormed to the bedroom and threw myself on the quilt. Like a child.
I lay in the dark, listening for Matt.
Rain spattered against the window. I heard the low thump-thump of his feet pacing the floor. Lightning shimmered on the wall and thunder reverberated over the Denver skyline.
At last, I heard him coming down the hall.
The mattress shifted.
“Are you awake?” he whispered.
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t propose,” he said. “You did.”
I rolled over. Matt sat on the edge of the bed, hands on knees, elbows locked. I crawled to him and slipped my arms around his shoulders. He relaxed in my hold.
“I guess … I did, yeah.” I laid my ear against his back. Relief relaxed me, too. It felt good, and right, finally to be talking about this. “But you went along with it.”
“Of course I did.” He chuckled. “Why would I pass up such a perfect play?”
“Huh?”
“Love, I knew you weren’t serious. Not completely.” He twisted around and cupped my face. His eyes glimmered with amusement. “I knew it was for the show. I mean, we’ve known each other for a year. Not even. And think about that year…”
Matt trailed off and I thought about that year.
It was a year next month, in fact, if we counted our meeting online. Less than a year if we didn’t count the Internet. Much less than a year if we didn’t count Matt’s meltdown in New York and our separation after his faked death.
So … we’d known one another for much less than a year.
A tight, painful feeling expanded in my chest.
“So w-why were you”—I cleared my throat—“looking at houses?”