“What do you mean?” I gestured to all the lace doilies, floral everything, vintage fabrics, and creepy bear tchotchkes. “This is my stuff.”

Hollywood didn’t laugh at my attempt at a joke. And it was a joke because the furniture in the house was older than me and ugly as sin. But crazily enough, it was like he could see the emotion swirling in my stomach until I wanted to vomit worse than when I’d had morning sickness.

There was that same softness in his gaze. It irked me.

“I’m getting new stuff,” I told him so he’d stop looking at me like that. “I’m using what’s here until I pick it out.”

It was his turn to joke as he ran a large hand over the plastic-covered couch. “At least your aunt kept her furniture fresh.” When he looked at me, though, there was something in his blue eyes. An edge. “You two close?”

I thought about lying. It’d be easier than fielding follow-up questions. But I kept it simple and told him the truth. “She was a stranger.”

I may not have known him, but I was good at reading people. It was my job and my lifeline. I saw the way his shoulders loosened at my answer. How a hint of a smile pulled at his lips.

It was guarded, but my answer had brought him some sense of relief. I just wasn’t sure why.

I also didn’t really care.

Moving toward the open door in a silent hint, I gave him a smile. “Thank you for your help.”

When his eyes dropped to my belly, I wanted to bite his head off for the implication before I realized I was unconsciously rubbing it.

Concern tightened his handsome features, and I was pretty sure I hated that worse than the sympathy. “You good?”

At his softly spoken question, I had my confirmation.

Yup.

Definitely hate it more.

“Just tight muscles and a long day,” I said, forcing a bigger smile.

I was good at that.

Or so I thought.

But suddenly I wasn’t so confident because Hollywood’s gaze zeroed in on my mouth and his own curved into a small scowl.

Go.

Go.

Get out!

In a blink, his odd look was gone as he closed the distance between us.

And I closed the distance between me and the door, needing all the space I could get from this badass wall who could read me too well.

“You need anything, I’m right next door. My prez’s old lady is a nurse. Day or night. Got it?”

Not really.

I had critical thinking skills, so I deduced he was talking about the Court of Mayhem president—and not the president of the country. I’d just never had friendly neighbors who helped unload vans and offered more than the occasional greeting.