When I see Bridger, though, my smile widens. All on its own.
He’s waiting for me on an elegant high-backed sofa that looks barely able to accommodate a second person. Behind him, the walls are lined with more shelves of books than I’ve ever seen in real life, outside of a library. The space smells like leather and furniture polish, and I wonder if a cleaning service has recently been here.
After all, this was once somebody’s private home, and for a brief moment, I let myself fantasize about the wealthy people who lived here.
Ialwaysfantasize about a cleaning service.
“You look clean,” Bridger tells me from across the room.
“Well, there’s less frosting and taco on me, anyway.”
“I don’t know. I kind of liked the frosting.”
“Me too, actually.”
“So, bath or shower?” he asks. His own hair is damp, and he’s poured into a pair of the softest-looking cotton joggers and a fitted shirt. Casual. Comfortable. Perfect.
“I took a bath first, showered after.” I shrug. “The tub was the size of a spaceship, and I had to try it.”
“Good.” He slips a phone from behind his back. “Now, smile.”
“Oh, man. No warning?” I let out a cackle and put my hands up in protest, but he takes a few pictures anyway. “Those will be terrible,” I groan.
“Doubtful.” He checks the photos. “Yep. I’m right. You look good when you’re blocking your face.”
“I’m not sure that’s a compliment.” I laugh again, and he takes another few shots of me while I approach the sofa. “We’re supposed to do selfies,” I remind him. “Ofbothof us.”
“I’m allowed to take pictures of my wife.”
My stomach quivers at the word wife. Which is silly, since I’ve said it out loud already, more than once. And in my headcountless times. But now,wifeis real. And things already feel different. Semantics are … strange.
“Have a seat,” Bridger says. “Get comfortable.”
Comfortable?
The free space left on the sofa is pretty limited. But I can hardly sit in the chair in the corner and take selfies. So I decide not to make this night weird.
Scratch that.Any weirder.
When I drop down next to Bridger, the scent of his body wash is intoxicating. Sandalwood. Yum. The effect is almost dizzying, and I suck in a long breath.
As if he’s reading my mind, he inhales deeply too.
“Sorry.” I wrinkle my nose. “Do I smell okay?”
So much for not making things weirder.
“You smell delicious,” he says. “Like a combination of something sweet and even a little … savory.”
I laugh. “Probably the al pastor.”
Okay. That was the weirdest.
“No, no.” He chuckles, leaning closer to me. “Not pork. More like nutmeg. Ginger. And maybe cloves?”
“Sounds like a recipe for carrot cake.”
“That’s it!” He grins. “You smell like carrot cake.”