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“Um, kind of but not fully.”

I grin and press a kiss to the corner of her lips. “It’s just a flat.”

“That you already bought.”

“I told you I was looking at something in this building.”

She snorts. “Yeah, but I didn’t expect you to buy it sight unseen.”

I shrug. “Tinsley had a look for me. And this is where I want to be. It was kismet.”

“Kismet,” she repeats. “I guess that’s us too.”

I smile and kiss her lips, loving how she reads my mind so well. Keegan’s fingers thread through mine, her palm slightly clammy.

The corridor to the elevator is carpeted in plush gray, muffling our footsteps. The building is newer, expensive in that understated way that doesn’t need to announce itself, and has enough security that I don’t have to worry. I punch the button for the eighth floor, and the elevator descends with barely a whisper. My heart seems determined to compensate for the silence, hammering so loudly I’m certain Keegan can hear it.

Once inside, I immediately back her against the wall, my lips finding hers in under a second. The kiss is hungry and urgent,all the restraint I showed upstairs evaporating in the blink of an eye.

“We have approximately thirty seconds before these doors open again,” she mumbles against my mouth, the fingers of her good hand already threading through my hair.

“I can work with that.” I press closer, feeling the soft curves of her body against mine. “Do you know how difficult it’s been to keep my hands to myself all evening?”

“No, but you better show me later.”

The elevator doors open—no way that was thirty seconds—and reluctantly I pull away, though my hand remains firmly entwined with hers.

“You’re being very mysterious,” she says finally, squeezing me. “All this cloak and dagger buying of apartments and bringing me to see it as if you’ve had this planned all night. Is this where you tell me you’ve secretly been a serial killer all along?”

I laugh, grateful for the break in tension as we walk down the long hall. “If I were a serial killer, I’d have a much better hiding place than the flat I just bought. Plus, I’m not sure serial killers out themselves to their victims.”

“Probably not.”

“I certainly wouldn’t tell your friends and family where I was taking you.”

“Fair point.” She leans against me, her hair tickling my chin. “You bought it without even seeing it? Is this your first time seeing it too?”

“It is.” I kiss the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her vanilla and cherry shampoo that now inexplicably makes me think of home. “I have pictures and a blueprint, but I haven’t stepped inside.”

“What if you hate it? You paid cash.”

“I’m not going to hate it. I’ve seen enough of it to know. Come on.”

We stop at 8C, and I fumble with the keys, suddenly uncoordinated in a way I haven’t been since my first screen test. I finally manage to unlock the door and push it open. Stepping aside, I let her enter first, though I won’t deny I’m dying to see it in person.

I bought it based on pictures and Tinsley’s assurance that it’s perfect for me. She said it needs some renovations, but nothing critical or immediate. It’s four bedrooms, four and a half baths, and certainly big enough to grow in.

I watch her face carefully, hungry for her reaction. The foyer opens to a sprawling living space with floor-to-ceiling windows framing the city lights like a jeweler’s display case. The hardwood floors gleam under recessed lights, and the open-concept design makes the already generous space seem endless.

Keegan walks forward slowly, her feet silent on the polished wood. She stops in the center of the sitting room and turns in a full circle.

“Loomis,” she breathes with an incredulous shake of her head. “This is...” She trails off.

“Too much?” I ask, suddenly unsure. Perhaps I’ve miscalculated. Perhaps this grand gesture is exactly the type of thing that makes her uncomfortable. We haven’t even been together two weeks. What felt like a brilliant idea not even four hours ago suddenly feels like a blunder.

“No.” She shakes her head again. “It’s beautiful. Seriously. I mean, it’s only the great room and kitchen, but it has a feel to it, you know?”

I take a deep breath. Six months ago, I couldn’t have imagined this moment. Six months ago, I was still the man who fled at the first sign of attachment, who kept a separate home in two countries to ensure I always had an escape route. The man,who, when his agent suggested settling down to squash his bad boy image, laughed and said he’d sooner play a superhero in spandex.