Pink swarmed her cheeks as she stood up straight and gave me a repressive glare. “I didn’t presume to think …” She trailed off with a huff, and her lips quirked. “All right, that might have been what I was thinking.”

“Gotcha.” I barely stopped myself from reaching out and tweaking her ponytail. That would have pissed her off. What was it about this girl that had me acting like an awkward teen?

The elevator opened straight into my loft, and I held out my hand, making a motion for her to enter first. She hesitated for a second, that pink blush remaining, then carefully stepped out and started slowly walking around, taking it all in.

My loft wasn’t one of those high-priced remodels they were selling off for millions. It was the genuine article, old and drafty industrial grid windows, exposed brick and ductwork—not because a designer decided those things looked cool but because that’s what was there to begin with. Didn’t really matter to me; I loved it anyway.

The place held all that remained of my past life, the things I couldn’t let myself sell off or let go. Some of it was essential to living here: the Swedish wood stove I’d picked up while on tour that put off so much heat, I didn’t have to worry about drafts and cold in the winter; the butter leather couch and two chairs I relaxed on when not working; Mom’s dining room set, and a dozen other odds and ends of hers I’d kept.

Parker’s gaze drifted over everything. Her little heels clicked in the echoing silence. The loft was enormous, taking up the entire top of the building. I’d cordoned off a bedroom, bathroom, and personal workout space on the back half, but the main space still dwarfed us.

She stopped and turned to face me. “It’s perfect.”

I shouldn’t give a rat’s ass if this woman liked my place. I shouldn’t care if anyone did. But something in me eased at her statement. Then I got annoyed all over again.

Grunting, I headed toward the kitchen. It had taken Carlos and I the better part of a summer to put it in, but we’d got the job done. Black cabinets on the bottom, open shelving—which is damn cheaper—along the top. We’d spent two weeks cursing like fiends trying to figure out how to pour a proper concrete countertop, but we figured it out eventually. I glanced at the lumpy end of one counter and swallowed a laugh. Okay, so we’d gone with wood butcher block for the center island after the whole concrete experiment.