“That ain’t true either.”
“It’s…” She searches for a word.
“Say masculine and I’m putting you back in the SUV.”
Her mouth twitches. “Private.”
That one lands.
Because it’s true.
My house is private.
Bare. Guarded. Set up for one man who doesn’t invite people in because people leave marks.
Sophie steps inside behind us and begins scanning the room like she intends to make it livable by force. “We need curtains.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Nobody asked you to redecorate.”
“A child is staying here.”
“For now.”
“That still requires curtains.”
“Why?”
“So he can sleep.”
“He can close his eyes.”
Amelia coughs into her hand.
Sophie points toward the hallway. “Bedrooms?”
I drag a hand down my face. “First door on the left is parts. Second is bathroom. Last door is mine.”
“Your room is theirs,” Sophie says.
“I know.”
Amelia turns fast. “No. I told you I don’t want to take your bedroom.”
“You ain’t taking it.”
“I am if you’re not sleeping in it.”
“I’ve slept on that couch before.”
She looks at the couch.
At the tape.
At me.