I head into the main living room, which is anchored by a ginormous gray sectional piled high with pillows in varying shades of blue. A TV the size of my bed hangs on the opposite wall, over a gray brick fireplace. To the left of the living room is an entire wall made of glass, the sunlight sparkling off the water like diamonds. The walls are all a muted cream, with nothing hanging on them, though I notice several spots of slightly discolored paint, like the photos and artwork that once hung there have all been removed. I frown a little to myself. I was hoping for some family portraits, anything to give me a glimpse into Jack’s childhood.

Jack emerges from the kitchen, where’s he stashed all the road trip snacks I never got a chance to even open. “Ready to see your room?”

“Fuck yeah. Lead the way.”

He takes me upstairs and all the way down the hall to the last room on the back side of the house. “This is my favorite of the guest rooms.”

Because there’s more than one guest room. Obviously.

Pushing open the door, I immediately come to a dead stop. “Would it be rude for me to ask if I could move in here instead of living in the brownstone?”

Jack laughs softly and nudges me farther into the space.

The hardwood floors are softened with a plush white rug. The bed is bigger than any my butt’s ever had the privilege of being on, dressed all in white super-soft linens and loads of pillows. French doors lead out to a balcony overlooking the water, but when I fully enter the room, my attention doesn’t snag on the killer view.

Instead I cross over to the foot of the bed, dropping my bag and staring at the painting hanging over the headboard. It’s so detailed it could almost pass for a photograph; in fact, I have to squint to make sure it’s actually a painting. It’s a beach scene, similar to the one just outside the windows. The sand looks like I could reach in and scoop it up, let it trickle through my fingers. The facets of the water catch every shade of blue. But what really captures my attention are the three figures walking down the beach, feet in the water, hands joined. In the middle is a little boy, probably about six or seven, with dark curls and bright green eyes. The woman on his left has matching curls, the man the same emerald eyes.

My breath hitches in my chest. I can feel the weight and heat of him as he moves to stand behind me. “It’s beautiful.”

“It was my mother’s favorite.”

“I can see why.” Reaching back, I find his hand, tucking mine into his grasp. “Are you sure you want me to stay in here?”

“Absolutely.” His fingers tighten around mine.