Page 110 of Lease to Love

I blinked. "This is Langston Park."

"I know."

"Why are we in Langston Park?"

"Because my house is in Langston Park."

I turned in my seat slowly. "No. Where’s your actual house."

One corner of his mouth lifted. "This is my actual house."

I looked through the windshield again. Brick. Black door. A couple of potted plants on the stoop. Nothing remotely resembling the secret billionaire lair I'd apparently decided he had tucked away somewhere.

"You live here? In a row house?" I stared at him.

He laughed. "Yes, Sunshine."

It was low and warm, and the sound made his dimples appear, which was frankly unfair considering I was trying to process the fact that the man who owned enough property to make my rent-induced migraines a legitimate medical condition lived three blocks from my boutique.

"You own half of Langston Park," I said.

"Not half."

"You own enough of it… And you live here."

"You're repeating yourself."

"Because I'm confused."

He kept grinning at me. "I can see that."

I narrowed my eyes. "Roman, where's your real house?"

“This is Ben’s all over again…” He grumbled under his breath, shaking his head, and unbuckled his seat belt.

He came around to my side before I could open the door and held it for me, one hand extended. I took it, stepping onto the sidewalk, and immediately felt the familiar pulse of the neighborhood beneath my feet.

"I came here when I first left New York," he said, all traces of teasing gone from his voice.

I looked at him.

"This place was the first place that embraced me when I got here. It was the first place that felt like it wanted me around." He glanced toward his house. "So when I finally had enough money to decide where I wanted to put down roots, there was never really a question about where I'd live."

Something about that softened me.

"You could've lived anywhere."

"I know." He opened the front door. "Come on."

I followed him inside.

And immediately forgot how to speak.

His house was beautiful.

Not flashy. Not sterile. Not one of those places that looked like nobody actually lived there because everything had been selected by a designer who hated fingerprints. It was warm. Rich wood floors stretched beneath my feet, exposed brick climbed one wall, and tall windows let the last amber light of the afternoon spill across deep leather furniture and enormous green plants.

Then I saw the records. He had an entire wall.