Page 54 of The Arrangement

He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Yeah. Most of it. I had a good idea of what I wanted.”

“I like your style.”

This seems to please him. “Let me show you the rest.”

He leads me through the family room with a gigantic fireplace that burns real wood and a television screen that transforms from a piece of art with the touch of a button. The shiny hardwood floors are so clean I can almost see my reflection, and pictures in simple frames are peppered around the room. They complement the perfect shade of soft white walls.

Nothing is out of place or even slightly askew.

Except me.

I glance down at my dirty Coffee and Cream T-shirt the coffee shop was giving away last spring at a customer appreciation event and a pair of cutoff jean shorts I made when my favorite jeans got a hole in the knee. I’m undoubtedly dusty, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there are cobwebs in my hair.

This is not the Chloe I usually present to Jason. And as he looks at me over his shoulder, explaining something about his quartz countertops in the chef’s kitchen, I consider what he must be thinking.

What is she doing here?

I know I’m wondering how the hell I got here … and how, despite every convenience known to man, I’ll ever be comfortable in a place like this.

We round the corner, and he shows me the pantry, which is big enough to live in. Down the hall is the laundry room, a bedroom with a small desk and a bathroom that he says is Mara’s office, his housekeeper, whom I’ll meet later. The diningroom, with a wall of windows overlooking the backyard, has a long table that seats fifteen.

It's incredible.

It’s a lot to take in.

“My goal was to create a space where I could relax at the end of the day,” he says. “I never really felt that way in any other home, and I really wanted a place that felt like me.”

“Your mother’s house, the one you grew up in, was always so untouchable, if that makes sense,” I say, remembering the home with actual busts of philosophers placed on tables. “My mom threatened me every day not to break anything. She’d tell me not to even breathe on it.”

We make it to the landing, and he ushers me to the left.

“Oh, Mom would tell us the same,” he says. “Our childhood was interesting. We were a tactile bunch—wrestling and whatnot. And Mom is a big hugger. But our house didn’t really match that vibe. Renn’s friends used to call it a museum, and they weren’t wrong.”

He points out three bedrooms, all with their own bathrooms. Then we retrace our steps and pass the staircase.

“I can see what you’re saying,” I say. “Your mom was always so warm and sweet. But your house was so … cold.”

“I have lots of theories about that.” He opens a set of double doors. “But we can save that for another time.”

“Yeah. Let’s save that for later.”

I gasp as all thoughts of Jason’s childhood home become distant memories.

Jason’s very adult bedroom is moody. Relaxing.Sexy.

It’s an oasis from life outside these doors. And it’s very different—so much better—than I visualized late at night while I imagined lying in his bed.

But now I’m here. And I’m going to be lying in his bed very,verysoon.

My mouth goes dry.

The walls are the deepest green—so dark that they’re almost black. The bed sits high off the floor with four posts and a headboard that’s padded in leather. The bedding is black, and as I drag my fingertips across it, I note how silky it feels against my skin.

It sends a shiver up my spine.

He presses a button, and the blinds open, displaying French doors that open to a terrace. Beyond the railing are treetops. It’s as if we’re in a tower, secluded from the world.

“Do you like it?” he asks, a thread of hope in his tone. “This is a closet.” He pulls open a door I didn’t notice. “And the en suite is through the doorway.”