Page 111 of Under His Control

“Because we need a place where we can get away from it all, where we can retreat when the neon of Vegas is a little much. Not to mention, a place where my family can go to the beach whenever they want.”

Her eyes go glossy. “You really thought this through.”

“I thought about you,” I say softly. “And Charlotte. And the kind of peace I want us to have.”

Her fingers tighten around the phone. “I want to see it.”

I grin. “I was hoping you'd say that.”

She stares at the screen, then up at me. “This is why you disappeared last Wednesday?”

I nod.

“And the secret phone calls?”

“Yes, I was talking with the realtor.”

She bursts out laughing, then throws her arms around my neck, nearly knocking me off balance. “You idiot. You perfect, sneaky idiot.”

Charlotte, still swinging, yells, “Hug me, too!”

I scoop her up midair and hold both of them close.

Taylor kisses my cheek. “I will love you forever, you know.”

I smile. “I’m counting on it.”

The next day, after a smooth flight and an even smoother landing, we’re driving down a quiet, sun-dappled street in Playa del Rey. The ocean’s just a few blocks away—close enough to taste the salt in the breeze but far enough to muffle the city behind it.

It’s that perfect slice of L.A. that still feels like a beach town. No billboards. No flashing lights. Just palm trees, surf shops, and houses that look like storybooks forgot to take them back.

Charlotte hums along to a Disney playlist in the back seat, swinging her legs and pressing her nose to the window.

“Almost there,” I say, glancing at Taylor, who smiles softly but hasn’t said much since we left the tarmac.

Her hand rests over mine on the console. She’s watching the neighborhood go by: kids on bikes, flower boxes in windows, a wind chime dancing in the breeze.

When we round the final corner and pull up the drive, she sits up straighter.

The house is charming in the kind of way that makes people stop and admire. Creamy white stucco with navy trim, a wide porch wrapped in blooming jasmine and striped awnings, and an arched wooden front door that looks like it’s been kissed by the sun for decades.

Spanish tile roofs, copper lanterns, and a driveway lined with citrus trees. It’s beautiful. But it’s also big—spacious and solid beneath the quaintness. Five bedrooms. A large garden. Abackyard big enough for a swing set and a pool, if we ever felt inclined.

I park at the curb, heart pounding for reasons I don’t say out loud.

Taylor opens the car door slowly. She steps out like she’s afraid the ground might shift under her feet.

Charlotte doesn’t wait. She unbuckles, leaps out, and takes off toward the porch like she’s already claimed it. “Iloveit!”

Taylor just stares, one hand clutching her chest.

“Too much?” I ask softly, coming around the car.

Her eyes are shining. “No,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s perfect.”

I slide my arm around her waist and pull her close. “Then let’s make it our home.”

She walks up the stairs, then spins slowly in place, taking in every inch. Her hands glide along the railing, her fingers brushing over the porch swing. She opens the front door and steps inside. I follow, watching her move through the house like she’s trying to memorize it.