As she stared up at the three-story home, Stevie realized something else. Not only had she not spotted the life-sized dollhouse, but she also hadn't noticed that they'd come through a white-painted gate, or that they'd come up a winding driveway. She hadn't even spied the enormous, fifteen-foot privacy hedges. Or the currently unattended film-crew trailers.
And now that she saw it all she didn't know how she could've missed her entire, opulent surroundings.
Yeah, well...said her snide inner voice. It may have had something to do with the bump 'n' grind in the backseat.
But seriously. Even having her body rocked, Snug Pants style, was no excuse. Not with everything that was on display at Casa de Rian.
There was a freakin' fountain at the edge of the yard. And something told her there'd probably be real fish inside, swimming around like it was nothing to live in the lap of luxury. Maybe tiny mermaids. Possibly pet unicorns. Because that's what money could buy, right? Anything.
Yes, she knew she was being childish. But Stevie still had to resist an urge to walk over to the edge and check for mythical, rich-people-only creatures. She turned back to Rian. He was standing a few feet away, his hands shoved into his pockets, a small smile on his face as he stared up at the house.
"You like it?" he asked.
He sounded almost...shy. Which was weird.
Stevie nodded, puzzled by his tone. "I...um, yeah."
"Yeah?"
Did he need something more?
"Sure," she added. "It's nice."
He shook his head like he was trying to clear it, then fixed her with one of his signature, bland stares, and spoke in his typically dry voice. "Good thing you think so. Seeing as you're going to be living here. Come and take the tour."
He stalked by, and even though he barely grazed her arm as he went past, the immediate tingle that shot through Stevie's body reminded her that he was capable of being the complete opposite of bland. Of being a dark chocolate cupcake with buttercream frosting and rainbow sprinkles.
"Shut up," she muttered at her treacherous body, then pushed to catch up with Rian, who'd already reached the veranda and was plugging in a code to the computerized locking system.
"I'll get you set up with a code, too," he told her without turning around. "Everyone's got their own. Echo, me, the cleaning staff, the set crew...Makes it easy to track who's come and gone. Don't worry about the tracking too much, though. Our security is pretty tight, so we don't usually have too much of a problem with paparazzi. Not since the snipers got the first one anyway."
"Very funny."
But she still took a miniscule step backwards and tilted her eyes to the roof. Not because she truly expected to find the telltale glint of a gun, or because she really believed there was some ninja-slash-army dude up above, but because it just dawned on her that there could be a need for one in Echo's life. Which was about to become her life. And now that she thought about it, she was kinda sure she'd even once read something about a crazed stalker hounding him. She fought a shiver.
Dear body, she said silently, You have to stop being so irrational. If you even consider shuddering with barely repressed horror or deep foreboding, I will gladly separate you from my brain. Permanently. So kindly quit betraying me.
Rian's voice made her jump anyway. "You coming in?"
"Yeah, I'm just..."
As she stepped into the expansive foyer, she trailed off. She even forgot about the little tickle of worry in the back of her mind. It wasn't that the entrance was overdone. It was that it was...cozy. All warm, dark wood and chocolate décor. Understated and somehow masculine. Though not the gun-toting, big-truck-driving, let-me-show-you-what's-behind-my-zipper compensating kind of masculine. More like the I-can-comfortably-carry-a-man-purse kind of masculine. And not very rock star-y at all.
"Yeah. I keep Echo on a guitar ration. Plus, all his shit's behind door number two," Rian said, clearly reading her face as he gestured toward a closed door at the end of the room, then reached down to unlace his boots. "This floor is mainly Echo's, actually. Couple of bedrooms, his included. Soundproof practice space. Bar area – currently devoid of booze, of course – and entertainment space."
"Wait. You live on separate floors?"
"We need space. And we have different taste."
For one second – just one, barely there, gone so fast she almost thought she imagined it second – his eyes ran over her body. Yeah, she still wasn't letting him get away with it.
"Right," Stevie said with a sweet smile. "Different taste. He slums it. And you like mermaids."
"What?"
Okay, the last bit had slipped out. She decided not to clarify. She could be a damned enigma if she chose to be.
"Your taste is upstairs?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"Well. Might as well take care of the boring stuff first," she said.
She kicked off her own boots, then hurried up. But at the top, the hardwood stairs gave way to plush carpet. And Stevie couldn't help but wriggle her toes a little, enjoying it. But when she glanced down to see if it looked as nice as it felt, she stopped moving immediately. Her mismatched socks – one covered in scarf-wearing penguins and the other striped (complete with a hole in one toe) – were distinctly at odds with the rich rug under them.
So hot, she thought. Between the skirt, the skinned knees, and the awesome socks, I look like a damned six-year-old who woke up and dressed herself in the dark.
Doing the annoying I-know-what-you're-thinking thing again, Rian frowned down at her socks.
"Laundry day," she muttered, embarrassed in spite of the way she willed herself not to care.
"The contract has a clothing budget."
"I haven't actually signed the contract yet. Someone insisted that I come by for a tour first. Sorry if I forgot to grab my silk socks for the occasion."
"I wasn't..." He trailed off, then ran a hand over his hair irritably. "Never mind. C'mon." He guided her down the hall, pointing at each room and giving a cryptic description. "Guest bathroom. Not yours." Moving again, pointing to a pair of doors. "Guest bedrooms, one and two. Also not yours." A few more steps, another room. "Office. Work stuff."
There, Rian did pause. Just long enough for Stevie to sneak in a glance and spy an antique desk and floor to ceiling shelves lined with books before he reached around her to close the door.
"Let me guess..." Stevie said as he cut short her ogling. "Also not mine?"
"Also not yours," he agreed.
She crossed her arms over her chest. "Okay. I get it. You own stuff. I already figured that out, so if that was the point of this tour, it really wasn't necessary."
"You're the one who wanted to come up here."
"Maybe I wanted a glimpse into your personal space. To see if I could find an explanation for your sour disposition."
"If you're hoping to find a tortured soul on the other side of my bedroom door, you'll be sorely disappointed."
"I'm not hoping to find anything behind your bedroom door, thanks very much."
His expression darkened. And when he took a step toward her, Stevie thought he might grab her. That he might push her up against the wall and break his promise not to kiss her again. And worse...that she might want him to do it. Her breath even caught at the thought. But he didn't reach for her.
"You know that I don't give a shit about your socks, right?" he asked instead, his voice as stormy as his look.
"I don't know what you give a shit about and what you don't give a shit about." It was the truth.
He exhaled heavily, stepped away and gestured around the hallway. "Notice what's missing from the tour?"
She responded with a narrow-eyed glare. "Besides integrity and a reasonable tour guide?"
He didn't bite, even though his mouth twitched. "Cameras."
"Cameras?"
"We're shooting a TV show in the house."
"I know." She schooled her voice to be as blasé as his. "And?"
"And this is one of the safe spaces, sweetpea. No automatic video feed. No Echo drama."
"Again...and?"
"There are only a few spots in the house that haven't been wired up, all right? So if you really decide to go through with this, you can always find a bit of a reprieve in here."
"In a space that isn't mine."
Rian sighed. "Lee wasn't kidding, was he?"
At the mention of her old boss – funny that he already seemed to be a (regrettable) part of her past – Stevie bristled. "About what?"
"You really will argue about every little thing."
"I just call bullshit when I hear it."
He sighed again, this time loudly. "I own the whole house, don't I, Stevie? No matter where I offer to let you get some peace, it's going to be mine. Unless you want to argue about that, too."
She opened her mouth, then closed it. Whatever she said, it would be an argument. Or he'd take it as one.
He shot her a little smile – not even a decently smug one, though – then spun on his heel. "Let's go. Five thousand more square feet await your scrutiny."
It wasn't until that second that Stevie noticed something. And what she saw struck something inside of her. A small chord that she couldn't deny, but couldn't quite name yet either.
She stared at Rian's feet as they moved along.
Because in spite of his big, beautiful house and mermaid-buying fortunes...Rian's socks were just like hers. One a black and white speckled mess. The other some kind of super hero theme. And as he lifted one foot to take the first step, she spied a very prominent hole in the heel of the second one.
And Stevie's heart started pitter-patting like a train about to go off the tracks. Her brain became a bowl of warm, mushy oatmeal. All because of a goddamned sock.
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