And ghosts. I snatch my hand back.
But no bother, because I’ve just caught sight of the bedrooms and it’s like a full-on bed-and-breakfast up here. Like one you might find on Airbnb, if you were searching for a Victorian museum to stay in with rooms named things like the Yellow Daffodil or the Pink Hibiscus.
I’m delighted.
The beds have all got to be as old as that staircase, but I’m trusting the mattresses are newer. I wonder if Warren would know? I decide not to ask him because I think he’d just raise one of those sexy eyebrows and stare at me as if he couldn’t figure out if I was serious or hitting on him.
Both, would be the answer.
In any case, there should definitely be a set of red velvet ropes keeping me out of these rooms, but there’s not. I get to walk through this living museum and stay for a while.
“So, which room is mine?” I ask.
“You have your choice,” he says. “Except for the one on the left, that’s Bethany’s.”
I peek inside and I’m relieved to find that her bedroom was given a makeover sometime in the recent twenty-first century. The walls are painted a crisp peach hue and covered with an assortment of posters and framed art. There’s also a bright multi-colored quilt on the bed and a few fluffy pillows set perfectly at the headboard. She’s got a very cool Plexiglas desk that would be completely out of place anywhere else in this house, complete with a pink swivel chair. It’s definitely an age-appropriate oasis in the midst of this vintage time capsule.
“My choice, huh?” I say, lingering in front of one of several doors. Whichever will I choose? They’re all so amazingly bad. In a charming way, obviously. I mean, I’m certain this décor was the very height of design at one point. Forty years ago. “Not sure how I can even begin to choose,” I say. “They’re all… something.”
That earns me another smirk. I glance back at him, finding him framed expertly in the hall. He’s a photographer’s dream standing there like that, leaning a little against the wall, arms crossed. He’s changed into a fresh pair of jeans and a clean shirt and he’s most definitely taken a shower since he was at my place earlier. I eye his biceps. I remember seeing them when he was clutching a hammer or something at my house. Or was it a wrench? Who knows, but that’s probably how I got myself into this predicament in the first place.
God, I wish he would just kiss me. He could lift me up against this wall, pressing me into some ancient woodwork as he explored my mouth with his tongue. I bet he’s a good kisser. I wish he’d just make out with me already so I could find out.
“Where’s your room?” I ask, about as delicate as a hammer used to fix a pipe.
There’s that eyebrow raise that I was looking for. He pauses and then, after a moment, nods down the hall to a closed door on the right. I look at it, and then I look at him.
And I can’t help it.
I bite my lip a little.
“Are you flirting with me, Audrey?”
Well, duh, yes, I’m flirting with you, Governor. But that’s not the real question. The question is, is he flirting back?
Only one way to find out.
“I think I just figured you out,” I tease. “There was absolutely nothing wrong with my plumbing. You just made that up as an excuse to get me over here.” I blink, in what I hope is a flirtatious way.
Warren blinks in what is a most certainly a confused way.
“I think it’s clear to everyone…” He pauses, staring at me for a moment in which I imagine he’s going to say something like I think it’s clear to everyone that beneath this totally unreadable exterior, I’m really into you. But instead what he says is, “I think it’s clear to everyone, likely even Gary, that you have plumbing issues.”
The Gary bit was a cheap shot. Like I don’t get enough attitude about the accommodations from Gary himself.
Even still, I try to find something flirty in his tone. Coming up empty, I wait, hoping he’s going to add something flirty. He did smile when he said it, but my opinion is totally unreliable so I’m going to need a little more from him before I strip naked in his hallway.
I wait.
He doesn’t add anything.
“Of course,” I say, trying to play it off. “And before you ask, I only agreed to stay here because I wanted to envision you sleeping in an outdated bedroom surrounded by lilac wallpaper on a bed first slept in by Grover Cleveland. That’s all. No ulterior motive or anything. None whatsoever.”
He laughs, shaking his head as I leave him and head into my own bedroom.