I push through the door, and while I wouldn’t have thought it possible, my mouth drops even lower. The room is huge. And not by New Yorker standards but by actual people standards. A queen-sized bed stands center on the far wall, there’s a large bay window, and there’s a goddamn fireplace. In the bedroom. Everything is white, making the space look even larger, but despite the lack of color, the room feels warm and cozy. Once my plants move in, it’ll be the perfect space for me.

“This would be your bathroom.”

“Mine? As in all for me?” I don’t actually want to leave this bedroom—I’m tempted to just curl up under the quilt and refuse to vacate—but the call of an all-to-myself bathroom is too great. And yeah, I have my own bathroom now, but it kind of sucks, and never in my apartment-sharing life have I ever had a bathroom to myself.

Peeking my head in, I have to grab on to the door to keep from fainting. “Is that a claw-foot tub?”

Jack leans against the hallway wall. “That it is.”

“I think I just orgasmed.”

A choke sounding suspiciously laughlike rumbles out of him, and it’s in that moment I think this might actually work.

Jack pushes off the wall, gesturing to two closed doors. “My room and the other guest room.” He starts to walk back downstairs.

I cross to the stairs leading to another upper level. Because of course there’s another level. “What’s up there?”

Jack stumbles on the steps, catching himself before he tumbles down. “Oh, nothing. Just storage space. I’d ask that you not go up there.”

“Very Beauty and the Beast.” I lower my voice into a deep rumble. “ ‘The west wing is forbidden.’ ”

He doesn’t even crack a smile despite my spot-on impression. Instead he continues walking, throwing over his shoulder, “Did you want to see the backyard?”

“Fuck yeah I do!” I bound down the steps, beating him to the first level and the French doors leading out back.

I don’t wait for permission; I push them open, waiting to stumble into my own personal Eden, ready for this yard to be the cherry on top of this perfect New York fantasy sundae.

I stop short on the top step.

Jack joins me, his hands back in his pockets. “It needs a little work.”

That’s the understatement of the century.

Overgrown, dead bushes line the wooden fences. Weeds spill out of the raised garden beds. All kinds of tall green grass stalks push up between the stepping-stone path. It’s an absolute crime against backyardery.

“I love it,” I breathe out, already mapping what I’ll plant and where.

Jack looks at me like I’m crazy, the first time he’s given me such a look, which is odd, all things considered. “I was never much of a gardener.”