answered, curling her fingers into the top of a couch cushion. "You're frowning."
"Thinking." He paused and amended, "Surprised. It's not what I expected."
Melanie's gaze traveled the room. What could possibly be so shocking that he had to comment? The few pieces of art hung straight on the walls. She'd dusted the ceiling fan just yesterday. "What are you seeing that I'm not?"
"You." He sounded — looked — confused.
All right. So maybe their styles were colliding. He probably decorated with milk crates and build-it-yourself furniture. She liked the sleek, uncluttered lines of a modern look. She liked brushed leather and warm wood. He probably favored plaids and antlers on the wall.
"It is my place. Shouldn't it suit me?"
"Yeah. I just expected it to be more buttoned down."
Noura had complained that the place looked antiseptic when she came to visit unexpectedly a few months back. Nothing personal, she said. No character. Melanie had been working on that ever since. Apparently it had worked. Apparently it wasn't as boring as she seemed to be.
"I choose to take that as a compliment. "
"It was," he agreed. "You're welcome."
She'd take that too, rough edge and all. He didn't seem the sort to flatter easily. Given the night she'd had, she could use every reassurance that she hadn't gone crazy. That things would be okay. That some part of the world was still normal. Home was about as normal as it got.
He stepped toward the coffee table. Suddenly the sofa barrier didn't seem like enough. He held her gaze while he moved, then sat on the couch, settling beneath her as if she'd invited him to get comfortable. As if they weren't strangers and he hadn't muscled his way into her home. As if she hadn't let him like some kind of fool.
"About this staying thing."
"You won't know I'm here."
Oh yes, she would. "I'm not a roommate kind of person, and if you take over my living room, I promise you, I'll notice." If he was sleeping there when she got up to make coffee, she'd have to be quiet. She'd have to tiptoe in her own home.
And he didn't have luggage, so would he sleep in his clothes? Or in his shorts? Or in nothing at all? She might be able to find reasons not to object to that, but she'd have to let him stick around to be sure. That was harder.
Then again, he had been right beside her for the weirdest experience of her life. He'd been trying to help.
He got one night. One. After that, she'd kick him out. She pursed her lips and straightened to march down the short hall leading to the sole bedroom. She stopped at the linen closet, jerking the door open a little harder than strictly necessary.
"The sofa doesn't fold out. You'll have to make it work the way it is. It may be too short," she warned with a touch of vindictive glee as she wandered back to the living room, a bundle of sheets and one blanket the shield she carried against her chest.
"My knees bend." He'd stretched an arm along the back of the couch, completely taking over. She stopped at the edge of the room, staring. When the silence went on too long, his expression warmed, faint amusement kindling in his eyes. "Want some help with that?"
Melanie's stomach gave a rebellious hop of recognition. She saw interest in his gaze among other things. Curiosity. Determination. A hint of the heat that had nearly overwhelmed her and had her craving dark corners before all hell broke loose in the bar.
And that reminded her . She still didn't know exactly what was going on. "I'm fine, thank you," she said, sounding prim even to her own ears. "You're enjoying this far too much." She dropped the bedclothes beside him and refolded her arms. "So."
"So?" He twisted on the couch to face her.
"So," she repeated, eyebrow rising. "You were going to tell me about that nonsense in the pub."
The humor bled out of his eyes. For a moment, Melanie wished she could take the words back. She liked the hinted-at smile barely lifting the corners of his mouth, no matter that she'd seen it
"Thinking." He paused and amended, "Surprised. It's not what I expected."
Melanie's gaze traveled the room. What could possibly be so shocking that he had to comment? The few pieces of art hung straight on the walls. She'd dusted the ceiling fan just yesterday. "What are you seeing that I'm not?"
"You." He sounded — looked — confused.
All right. So maybe their styles were colliding. He probably decorated with milk crates and build-it-yourself furniture. She liked the sleek, uncluttered lines of a modern look. She liked brushed leather and warm wood. He probably favored plaids and antlers on the wall.
"It is my place. Shouldn't it suit me?"
"Yeah. I just expected it to be more buttoned down."
Noura had complained that the place looked antiseptic when she came to visit unexpectedly a few months back. Nothing personal, she said. No character. Melanie had been working on that ever since. Apparently it had worked. Apparently it wasn't as boring as she seemed to be.
"I choose to take that as a compliment. "
"It was," he agreed. "You're welcome."
She'd take that too, rough edge and all. He didn't seem the sort to flatter easily. Given the night she'd had, she could use every reassurance that she hadn't gone crazy. That things would be okay. That some part of the world was still normal. Home was about as normal as it got.
He stepped toward the coffee table. Suddenly the sofa barrier didn't seem like enough. He held her gaze while he moved, then sat on the couch, settling beneath her as if she'd invited him to get comfortable. As if they weren't strangers and he hadn't muscled his way into her home. As if she hadn't let him like some kind of fool.
"About this staying thing."
"You won't know I'm here."
Oh yes, she would. "I'm not a roommate kind of person, and if you take over my living room, I promise you, I'll notice." If he was sleeping there when she got up to make coffee, she'd have to be quiet. She'd have to tiptoe in her own home.
And he didn't have luggage, so would he sleep in his clothes? Or in his shorts? Or in nothing at all? She might be able to find reasons not to object to that, but she'd have to let him stick around to be sure. That was harder.
Then again, he had been right beside her for the weirdest experience of her life. He'd been trying to help.
He got one night. One. After that, she'd kick him out. She pursed her lips and straightened to march down the short hall leading to the sole bedroom. She stopped at the linen closet, jerking the door open a little harder than strictly necessary.
"The sofa doesn't fold out. You'll have to make it work the way it is. It may be too short," she warned with a touch of vindictive glee as she wandered back to the living room, a bundle of sheets and one blanket the shield she carried against her chest.
"My knees bend." He'd stretched an arm along the back of the couch, completely taking over. She stopped at the edge of the room, staring. When the silence went on too long, his expression warmed, faint amusement kindling in his eyes. "Want some help with that?"
Melanie's stomach gave a rebellious hop of recognition. She saw interest in his gaze among other things. Curiosity. Determination. A hint of the heat that had nearly overwhelmed her and had her craving dark corners before all hell broke loose in the bar.
And that reminded her . She still didn't know exactly what was going on. "I'm fine, thank you," she said, sounding prim even to her own ears. "You're enjoying this far too much." She dropped the bedclothes beside him and refolded her arms. "So."
"So?" He twisted on the couch to face her.
"So," she repeated, eyebrow rising. "You were going to tell me about that nonsense in the pub."
The humor bled out of his eyes. For a moment, Melanie wished she could take the words back. She liked the hinted-at smile barely lifting the corners of his mouth, no matter that she'd seen it
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