Page 144 of Ballrooms & Blackmail

Of course, it’ll be a bit more ours once I’m fully unpacked.

Because, dear God, cardboard boxes cover nearly every available surface—my things from my apartment that have been in storage while Thorn healed, the new books and furniture and shelves and cozy, fluffy blankets and a hundred other things Thorn insisted I needed. The movies and spices and kitchen items I insisted he needed.

All in all, it’s a disaster.

Thorn emerges from the elevator carrying yet another box.

“Books,” he says. “You have so many damned books.”

I smile at him. “We have so many damned books, honey.”

His expression goes blank. Then he grins. “Yeah, I guess we do.”

Grinning back—because he’s as addicted to my romantasy books as I am—I open the pantry and reach for the container of flour.

The movement pulls slightly at my back and I reach a hand behind me, rubbing at the ache that’s been forming over the last few hours.

Maybe I do have too many books. Or kitchen tools.

Blasphemy.

But the sight makes Thorn frown—of course it does.

Because he notices everything.

He sets the box down and comes over to me, rubbing at my back. “You should take a break, little hen.”

I wrinkle my nose. “I’m making you cookies.”

“You’ve been unpacking for six hours, and you’re tired.” He scowls. “No cookies.”

“You love my cookies.”

“I do. But not when you’re tired.”

“Honey—”

“I love when you call me that, little hen. But no dice. You need to rest.”

“I…” I sigh.

“What?”

“I want our house to be a home.”

His eyes soften. Then he smiles, taps my nose. “Stubborn thing, aren’t you?”

Mine narrow in return. “Pot meet kettle.”

“Meow?” Violet jumps up on the counter directly between us, carrying one of my socks.

A tiny smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Fine,” he mutters, picking up the books and carrying them out of the kitchen. “Cookies,” he calls. “Then you’ll rest.”

“Deal,” I call back and lift on tiptoe, intending to grab my recipe book from the shelf next to the fridge.

Instead, my fingers brush across?—

“What?” I whisper, frowning as I knock a small envelope to the floor.