“I see someone’s a grinch,” I state as he parks and turns off the engine.
Mr. McLaren’s gaze flickers to mine. “Excuse me?”
“No decorations. Not so much as a wreath on your door,” I say, shaking my head in solemn disapproval.
Mr. McLaren rolls his eyes. “Hey, I brought home a real live elf; that has to count for something.”
Thankfully, he climbs out of the car after that, so he doesn’t see me blushing because he said he brought me home. I have got to get my mind out of the gutter.
I don’t expect any gallantry from this man, so I’m pleasantly surprised when I get around to the front of the car and find him waiting for me. The driveway is a little icy from the cold snap we’ve had lately, so he ushers me to his front door. I wait anxiously while he unlocks it and pushes it open.
He gestures for me to go in ahead of him—more unexpected gallantry—so I do. I hold my breath as I step across the threshold, then immediately begin searching for some sign of another woman.
Relief wraps around me as I look around at a sparsely furnished living area with bare hardwood floors and bare white walls. If a woman lives here with him, it’s not one who feels comfortable enough to decorate.
"Looks like no one else is home," I ob
serve.
“I live alone,” he says, peeling off his coat and opening the closet door. Once he has his own coat put away, he grabs a second hanger and holds out his hand, silently commanding me to hand mine over.
“Oh.” I quickly tug my coat off and hand it to him.
"Come on." Without explanation, he guides me past the living room. I see the kitchen ahead, but we don’t go that way. We turn right down a hallway and go to the last doorway on the very end.
He opens the door into a massive room. I’m not sure if this was meant to be an excessively sized master suite or perhaps a family room that he repurposed, but the bedrooms in my house are sizable and this is way bigger.
At first I’m alarmed, because this is clearly his bedroom. As soon as he opens the door, the enormous California King at the other end of the room is the first thing my eyes focus on.
This is half bedroom, half office, and clearly where he spends the most time. While the rest of the house is only furnished by necessity by someone who appears never to be home, this room feels lived in. There are still no photographs on the walls or any real signs of sentimentality, but there are hints of him scattered about. The wall to the left is lined with bookcases and packed full of varied titles. There’s a loveseat toward the front of the room, facing a television mounted on the wall beside the door. In the corner there’s a case of movies. I wish we were closer so I could see what he enjoys watching.
Mr. McLaren walks over to the desk along the opposite wall and drops his shopping bags beside it. He peels off his suit jacket and drapes it over the back of the chair as a matter of routine. I imagine him always doing this when he gets home, and I feel for a moment like a voyeur, peeking in on his life.
He looks over at me. “Do you need anything before we get started? Water, perhaps?”
I am a little thirsty, but I find myself shaking my head, not wanting to impose.
“Very well,” he says as he drops into the chair behind his desk. "Then it’s time for your first lesson, Noelle."
I approach his desk, my stomach twisting into knots. I feel so awkward, not knowing where he wants me. There’s a chair on his side of the desk for him to sit on, but no chair on the other side of it for anyone else. The only other surfaces in the room I could really sit on would be the loveseat or his bed. Both are too far away, and one is his bed—obviously, I can’t sit there.
“What should I do?” I finally ask him as I bend to put my own things down on the floor on this side of the desk.
Mr. McLaren cocks an eyebrow, apparently unimpressed with my inability to figure out such a simple thing. “Sit.”
“Where?” I gesture to the open air around me. “There’s no chair.”
He stares at me for a long moment, seeming to enjoy my discomfort. My confidence has all but evaporated in his presence. I bite down on my bottom lip, waiting for Mr. McLaren to pull something out of thin air for me to sit on.
Finally, he leans forward and places his palm on his desk. The surface is mostly clear, save for a few papers to his right. I don’t immediately understand what he’s saying, but then he pats the surface with his large hand.
My heart soars, then plummets, like a bird shot out of the air mid-flight. “You… you want me to sit on your desk?”
“Does that make you uncomfortable?”
“Yes,” I answer honestly, my gaze darting to the gleaming surface beneath his hand. If I sat up there—especially in my dress—he would be able to see way too much.
“Then yes, that’s what I want,” he says simply, meeting my gaze across the desk.