The house comes into view.
I blink, then take it in.
A large horseshoe-shaped driveway sweeps around in front of a home that has absolutely no business being out here in the middle of the Nevada desert, and yet somehow looks like it has grown directly out of it. Sleek and modern, clean lines and floor-to-ceiling windows glow warmly against the dark, raw stone exterior, catching the light in a way that feels both rugged and intentional. It’s the kind of house that stops you mid-sentence.
“Wow,” I whisper.
“Figured you’d say that,” Tate says, parking in front of the patio.
Climbing out slowly, my eyes move over the house without quite being able to take it all in at once. “You actually live here?”
“Yeah.” He’s watching me from the other side of the truck with that quiet smile.
“This is not what I expected.”
He laughs, easy and genuine. “What were you expecting?”
“Skulls on the walls. Maybe some barbed wire.”
“Please.” He reaches into the truck bed for my bag, slightly more careful this time, I notice, and gestures toward the front of the house. “Come on.”
Following him up the wide, modern steps to the front patio, something large and dark launches itself out of the shadows directly at us. A full, genuine, embarrassing scream escapes me, and I grab Tate’s arm with both hands, pressing myself against his side before my brain has even caught up with what’s happening.
“Easy.” His voice is warm with barely suppressed amusement. “That’s Memphis. He’s my dog.”
Slowly loosening my grip, I look down.
A large German Shepherd is sitting at Tate’s feet, ears forward, tongue out, looking thoroughly pleased with the reaction he has gotten. He’s actually beautiful, big, dark-coated, and completely unbothered by the fact that he’d nearly given me a heart attack.
Memphis shifts his attention from Tate to me, sniffs the air once, and then presses the side of his big warm head against my hip like we’re already old friends.
“Oh.” Letting go of Tate’s arm, I crouch down and let Memphis sniff my hand before scratching behind his ears. “Hello, Memphis. You absolute menace.”
His tail sweeps back and forth with enormous satisfaction.
“Down, Memphis,” Tate says.
Memphis sits, still watching me with those warm amber eyes like he’s deciding whether I’m worth keeping around.
“Sorry about that,” Tate says, pushing open the front door. “He’s not used to visitors out here.”
“He’s gorgeous,” I say, giving Memphis one last scratch before following Tate inside.
The interior stops me in the doorway.
Open, airy, and completely unexpected. There’s dark wood, polished concrete, and modern furniture in a space that feels both deliberate and genuinely lived-in. Massive windows are on every wall, the darkness of the desert pressing softly againstthe glass outside. The kitchen flows into the living space that continues into the dining area, all of it connected, warm, and lit from above.
It feels like a home.
A real one.
Tate glances back at me. “Come on.”
He leads me down a hallway, and I catch a glimpse through a doorway of the pool, still, blue, and glowing softly in the desert dark, before we turn the corner and stop in front of a closed door.
He pushes it open and steps back.
Walking in, I stop.