Page 23 of Stick to the Deal (Friendship Springs Romance #3)

Unpacking

I glance up at the white brick exterior of my new townhouse.

Adjusting my camera bag higher on my shoulder, and take a last deep breath before stepping up to the front door.

A pang echoes through me at the thought of leaving my old apartment behind.

It’s been my home-away-from-home for so long.

And yeah, the doorman and million dollar view were fantastic.

This will be fine. Good, even. The property belonged to my grandmother, I’m married now and need my own place.

If my life has taught me anything, it’s that you have to move forward. The world is going to keep moving around you, if you are ready or not. So hold the fuck on and try to enjoy the ride.

My shiny new key slips into the lock and the door opens silently. “Honey, I’m home,” I call. The strains of classical music float faintly from somewhere above. Exposed brick along the exterior walls gives the space an old-world feel that strangely fits with the gray walls and dark wood floors.

I drop my bag on the gray leather sofa, which dominates the main area. It’s also the only furniture in the room. Floor to ceiling built-in bookcases already filled with books flank the long wall of the room and large windows overlook a rear terrace.

There are no other furnishings on the main floor. Where has Reginald been eating? The kitchen, if you can call a handful of cabinets and miniature appliances a kitchen, would make Anna cry. Good thing neither Reginald nor I actually cook.

At least I don’t think he does. Probably something I should learn about my new husband.

Where the fuck is my new husband?

I follow the strains of the piano back to the front and climb the staircase.

Two rooms open from the landing and the sound gets louder.

I approach the larger room, pausing in the doorway.

Where the first floor was sparse, this room is fully furnished with a small table, file cabinets, and hanging TV.

Reginald sits scowling at his laptop. He’s dressed formally but has undone the top button of his shirt. His hair is tousled like he’s been pulling on it.

“Knock, knock.”

His head jerks up, eyes widening before he looks down at his watch. “Dammit, I was going to meet you downstairs. What do you think?”

“I think we need to go furniture shopping.”

His lips quiver like he might smile. “I told you I wasn’t shopping without you.”

“Great find, hubby. It’s even better than the video tour you gave me. I like it. Work giving you trouble?”

“Yes. No.” He sighs and leans back in his chair, massaging his brow. “Work is going well. Social media response is promising. The team works really hard, and it’s paying off.”

“But?”

“I want to build morale a bit. Show my appreciation for everyone’s dedication. I’ve been searching for ideas for hours.” He scoffs and shifts the laptop slightly. On the screen are lists of tourist locations and group tours.

“Why don’t we throw a party here? Halloween is only a couple of weeks away.”

“Halloween party?”

“Yeah, I know it’s not as big in England, but it’s a whole thing here. It’ll be fun. I’ll help. What are society wives for?” I flutter my eyelashes at him, which gets a chuckle. “Now go change. We have unpacking to do.”

I walk over to the other bedroom to inspect my new studio. The space is smaller, but has a built-in bookshelf by the windows. Moving boxes stack neatly along the long wall.

Cracking my neck, I stand in the center when I feel Reginald approach.

I turn to see him better and my breath catches at the sight.

He is wearing a white T-shirt and plain gray sweatpants, loose enough to skim his hips and thighs, but tight enough to hint at what lies beneath.

Honestly, he’d make a remarkable Christian Gray. My fingers itch for a camera.

Ducking his head slightly, he runs a hand through his hair, leaving it more disheveled, the motion as out of place for him as the casual clothes. “What?”

“I was starting to wonder if you owned anything other than a suit.”

“Very funny. I wasn’t sure how you’d like the room set up, and perhaps a little afraid to touch any of your equipment.”

“It’s fine. I’m pretty particular about my organization, anyway. I’ll open and point, and you carry.”

Together, we work through the boxes. Props, lenses, and light gels go in labeled bins in the walk-in closet.

Backdrops pile neatly along the wall, and I make a mental note to add a rack to my shopping list. Lights, tripods, bouncers, and defusers similarly stack against the far wall.

My table abuts the windows to take advantage of the natural light.

It is smaller than my old space, but it’s cozy. I could see myself working here.

“What’s in these?” Reginald asks as he steps up to the wooden crates I’ve left untouched.

“Oh no, that’s…” Too late. He already has the top off and has pulled out a framed print from the box. The photo shows a vivid sunset of pink, purple, and blue reflected over a river with white lightning cracking overhead. “Nothing,” I finish lamely.

“Is this yours?”

I nod, but he ignores me as he pulls out the next.

This one is an ocean pier in forced perspective that seems to travel on for miles, with a citrine and cerulean sky above.

A black-and-white photograph of a gargoyle statue emerges next, followed by brightly painted buildings with a street musician framed by a wrought-iron gate.

The final is a high contrast black-and-white photograph of the Royal Opera House, the bright lights reflecting on the wet cobblestones.

“These are beautiful.” He turns to me with awe in his eyes. “Are they for a show?”

“No.” I shift uncomfortably and flick my nail with my finger. “They were up at Pop when we first opened to fill the space. Soon after, I started curating local artists to display and sell their pieces as another revenue stream for the restaurant, and these have sat here since.”

My art has always been something of a touchy topic .

For years, my grandmother told me it was only a hobby and wouldn’t amount to anything.

I know I’m good at capturing the essence of a person or object for a magazine.

That’s not art though. I simply capture what is already there, not create something formative.

Something emotional. My camera lets other people shine, but it’s not for me to shine.

The girls have never understood. But they’re not really artists.

Sure, Anna is a culinary genius and creates the most delectable and visually appealing treats. Brianna can appreciate the mathematical side of ratios and balance. But neither of them understands color and composition.

Reginald reverently replaces all except the last back into the crate. The opera house he lifts and strides out of the room carrying it.

“Where are you going with that?” Even with my long legs, I have to struggle to catch up as he climbs the stairs two at a time to the third floor.

The entire level is a master bedroom. A king-sized bed sits center, a small lounge area tucked in the corner, but the main attraction is the glass slider leading out to a private rooftop terrace.

Undeterred, Reginald places the frame on the mattress and then walks to what is presumably a closet.

“Hey, Joseph Pulitzer, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Looking for a hammer.”

“Why?”

“I’m hanging your picture up.”

A burst of warmth shocks through my system. He actually likes them. Enough to want to hang them in our bedroom. He wasn’t saying it to be nice. Then again, have I ever seen Reginald do something just to be nice since I met him?

“First, you need special hardware for that.” His shoulders deflate. “Second, it’s after eleven. Let’s order a pizza and put on a show. We can pick up the wire hangers when we go furniture shopping tomorrow.”

At the word “pizza,” his stomach growls.

An adorable blush stains his cheeks and a small smile tugs at his firm lips.

I launch the delivery app and reorder my go-to pizza while he hops in the shower, then we settle in on the couch with my laptop to watch one of my favorite sitcoms and debate furniture placement.

The clock strikes one as we crawl into the massive bed side by side, too tired to do anything but drift off.

It’s a completely uneventful night full of a normalcy I’ve never known before.

So different from my typical NYC nights chasing excitement.

Maybe I was actually trying to escape loneliness, because this simple night at home with my husband is the best I’ve had in a long time.

And that thought is terrifying. One best left alone. Tonight I’ve done enough unpacking.