“Oh,” I whisper, something altogether different settling over me, and I feel myself melt into him.
“Jesus, should I tell you about the charities I donate to?” he asks, searching my face with a smile.
“Maybe.” I smile back, and he shakes his head.
“Nut,” he mutters, before kissing me once more and leading me toward the house, where Tim is coming down the stairs without our bags but a smile on his face. “It was good to see you, man. I’ll call and give you my travel schedule in a few days,” Dillon says to him, palming him some money.
“Sounds good, and have a good evening.” He gives us each a smile then heads toward the limo, where he gets in and takes off down the driveway as Dillon opens the door to his house. Stopping with the door open, I squeak as he scoops me up with an arm behind my back and one under my knees.
“What are you doing?” I latch on to his neck and he laughs.
“Carrying you over the threshold.” He pecks my nose then sets me down before stepping back out to bring our bags inside. I try to tell myself his actions are not sweet, but my stomach still flutters.
“Holy crap.” I spin in a circle, taking everything in. I knew from the outside that the house would be absurd to most, but with shiny marble floors, two curved staircases leading to the second level, a giant crystal chandelier hanging from what must be twenty-foot ceilings, it really is ridiculous. I mean, there is even a dark, antique round table in the middle of the space with an obnoxiously large vase of fake flowers in the center of it.
“Do you like it?” Dillon asks and I stop my spin to look at him, resting my hands on my hips.
“Honestly?” I don’t want to hurt his feelings, but I would never live in a place like this. It’s cold and reminds me of a museum in some ways.
“Honestly.”
“No.” I shrug then look around again. “I mean, I know some people like these types of houses, don’t get me wrong, but it doesn’t feel like a home. To me, it feels like a hotel lobby. I can’t imagine kicking off my shoes and walking around, and no way can I see kids here. I would be afraid they’d break something or hurt themselves on these shiny floors,” I say, shuffling my foot against the shinny marble.
“Kids?”
“Mini people. Kids.” I nod, and his eyes change ever-so-slightly before leaving mine.
Scanning the room, he slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans and leans back. “It reminded me of my grandparents’ home in Westchester, New York.” He smiles then looks at me once more. “I loved their house growing up. My brother and I used to spend our summers with them. We spent most of our days skating across floors just like these, playing indoor hockey.”
“Oh.” I look around, trying to picture a younger him doing just that, laughing and having fun, goofing around and being a kid. It seems almost impossible; he’s always kind of uptight and acts like he’s much older than he is.
“Those were some of my favorite memories, and when I found this house, I could see my kids doing the same thing right here.” He pulls one hand free and sweeps it out to encompass the room.
“How many kids do you want?” I ask without thinking.
“Four, if not more.”
“More than four?” I squeak and he grins, causing my legs to quake.
“Or however many you want to give me.”
“Slow down. I haven’t even come to terms with the fact we’re married.”
“You will.” He shrugs, pulling his hand from his pocket and walking toward me. “Now let me show you around.” He takes my hand, not giving me a choice, then leads me through one room after another, including a library with big, oversized couches, fluffy chairs, and a fireplace making the room feel cozy. A kitchen, with a huge island in the center, tons of counter space, and appliances the likes I’ve never seen in person, including a glass front fridge and a pizza oven. Before we even make it to his room I’m half in love with the house, but when I see his bedroom I’m done. The room is three times the size of mine, with a masculine four-post bed in the center of it covered in crisp white sheets and a simple pattern white and gray duvet, but by far my favorite thing is his closet that is so big it has an island in the middle. By the time the tour is over and he’s packed some clothes, I’m wondering if it wouldn’t be so bad to stay at his place.
*
“We are not watching this garbage.”
Pausing the television, I turn and glare at Dillon, who’s sprawled out next to me with his back to my headboard. His bare chest on display, tight boxers leaving nothing to the imagination, and his feet crossed at the ankle.