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I breathe in deeply, then breathe out. I’m all in my feelings. I’m looking forward to escaping the crappy house share—and potential homelessness—but the prospect of my new housemate is . . .
Just breathhhe.
At least his apartment has five bedrooms. There will be no sleeping-arrangement dramas, especially as the principal suite is at the opposite end of the apartment from the other bedrooms. I’m not sure if he mentioned this to put me at ease or whether it was his way of saying he didn’t expect to see me in or near his room.
“Give me the bag,” Troy commands, ignoring the flowers.
“It’s fine, really. Strong, independent woman here.”
“Strong, independent woman who’s marrying a dick, by the look of things.” He quirks a brow and just . . . urgh.
“Fine.” Everything is not fine. And I don’t feel giddy, not at all. What I am is terrified.
I hand over the bag, unzip the side pocket, then unravel the ring from the tissue I wrapped it in.
“Thanks.” If he thinks I cheaped out, he doesn’t say so as he slides it into his inside jacket pocket.
I know as part of my grandmother’s legacy, I have a safe-deposit box full of jewelry waiting for me. While I guess I could wear her wedding set once I get access, I think I’ll buy something new. Nothing fancy. Just something more convincing than what I just handed him. Probably zirconia or maybe moissanite. Something manufactured. Just like this marriage.
“Shall we?” He gestures to the entrance at the top of a short flight of stone steps.
It might as well be at the summit of Mount Everest.
“Give me a minute?” My voice sounds as weak as my knees suddenly feel. On the journey in, I had other things to concentrate on. Like forcibly ignoring the advertising cards on the walls of the subway car: Buy now, Table it for later!
Staring at them only led my mind back to Troy, so instead, I wondered if I made a mistake buying that bagel for breakfast. Did I remember to pack my toothbrush? I pondered how ice cream was probably invented during the winter and how that hadn’t affected its popularity. And how, when we jump up and down, we don’t actually jump down. And why is it that sleep is something that doesn’t get better with practice—the less you do it, the easier it seems to happen. My mind spun and jumped from topic to topic, and I’d taken the last of my meds.
“Clara?”
“Hmm?”
“We don’t want to miss our slot.”
“Oh, right.”
Troy takes a moment to study my face. “Are you having second thoughts?”
I give a weird laugh. “Try fifth, twelfth, and probably fiftieth since I stepped out of the apartment this morning.”
He dips a little, bringing his warm gaze to mine. He looks benignly amused. I can’t really blame him. “This was your idea.”
“I’m aware,” I retort tersely.
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Can you make space for my freak-out?”
“Like, physically?” He gives a quick glance as though examining our surroundings.
“Hold, please.” I lift my hand like a stop sign, hating how crazy I sound. “I just need a moment to put the hamster back on the wheel.”
His brows dip as though he’s thinking. “If it’s any consolation, I’ve had to tear down some internal walls myself this morning.”
“For the renovation?”
He gives a tiny shake of his head and straightens. “I just hope they weren’t load bearing,” he mutters as he turns away.
Wow. Was that an insight into the inner workings of Troy? Of course he’d be having second thoughts too. Second thoughts worse than mine, because he didn’t try to ruin my life.
