After Dark (The Night Owl Trilogy #3)(2)

The scene is engraved on my memory: the way our cell phones rang relentlessly, the ringtone for my sister and then my mom sounding loudly, the way Matt kissed me and started to laugh, and the high fluttering happiness I felt because we had just announced our spontaneous engagement to the entire nation.

And then the way Matt had said, “You’re a genius, Hannah. You’re brilliant.”

In the days following our TV appearance, Matt managed to put off everyone who asked about the engagement. He said it wasn’t “a sure thing.” He said that we planned to “continue living together” and were “keeping our options open.” To Pam, he passed off the stunt as “Hannah’s last-minute stroke of genius.”


And with one another … we maintained a stilted silence on the matter.

I moved back into the condo with Matt. We returned to our routines. Three weeks passed, and I began to wonder if I had even asked. Marry me. Did I say those words? We’re getting married. Did he believe those words?

The sweet smell of rain brought me back to the present moment. I perched on the windowsill and listened as Denver’s dry pavement sighed beneath the downpour. The wind carried a spray of moisture that misted my face and legs.

You’re a genius, Hannah.

I shut the window and walked to the office.

The door stood open, which meant Matt wasn’t writing. I leaned against the frame and watched him. Something on the computer screen captivated him. He sat hunched forward, frowning and rubbing his jaw.

I giggled and his eyes shot up.

God … I loved to watch that smile dawning on his face.

“Little bird,” he said. He pushed away from the keyboard and patted his thigh.

“I’m invited into the inner sanctum?” I moved around the desk and sat on his lap, and his arms tightened about me. He grinned at me. His hair was growing in blond, light roots clashing with black dye on the fringes. I ran my fingers through it and he nuzzled my chest. “Baby, we gotta do something about your hair.”

“Mm.” With his face between my boobs, Matt might agree to anything.

I rubbed his shoulders and he planted idle kisses along the neckline of my nightie. I stole a glance at the computer.

“Are you … on Twitter?”

“Mm.” He got a handful of my rump and squeezed. “Interacting.”

“Interacting?” I smiled. “That’s kind of cute.”

“With my readers. I’m on Facebook, too.” His mouth drifted across my chest. “It was my editor’s idea.”

My eyes flickered to the Firefox browser. I rarely got a look at Matt’s computer. The browser tabs read Gmail, Twitter, and … Colo Real Estate?

“Hey … Matt.” Something in my voice stopped his wandering hands and lips. “Are you looking at houses?”

“What?” His head came up. “No.”

“Uh, yes.” I reached for the mouse and clicked on the Colo Real Estate tab. A page of Colorado homes loaded.

He glared at the screen.

“Whatever. Just looking.”

At least he didn’t lie and call it research.

A smile quirked my mouth—until I started to study the houses.

“You can’t be serious,” I said.

Matt eased out from under me and plopped me onto the office chair. He stalked to the wall, where he pretended a frame needed straightening.

“I am serious.” He spoke to the painting. “Why can’t I be serious? This place is tiny. You have no real room of your own. It’s like a—”

“‘Six built-in fireplaces,’” I read from the Web page. “‘Experience the grandeur of two-story ceilings, the wine room, wet bar, and—’”

“What’s wrong with—”

“Eight baths!” I shouted over him.

“Better than one.”

“Oh my God. Six bedrooms? Oh here, look at this. There’s a fountain in the driveway. That’s perfectly normal.”

“Looks nice.” His voice tightened.

“Marble floors, gourmet kitchen—ha! A Romeo and Juliet balcony? Is that a thing?”

“What’s wrong with a balcony?”

“These homes are in the millions.”

“The rock and stucco—”

“Right, that one is just a million and a half.” I swiveled to face him. “Look at me.”

He continued adjusting the painting, right a little, left a little. Ignoring me. Like a child. At last, he turned and folded his arms, and he stared at a spot in my vicinity.

“You like Nate’s house,” he said.

“Still? Seriously?”

“Still what?”

“You are still jealous of the way I looked at Nate’s home?”

“His home is nice. These homes are nice.” He jabbed a finger toward the computer. “I don’t see why we can’t even consider living somewhere nice and spacious.”

Weeks’ worth of frustration and confusion boiled over. I hurtled out of the chair and headed for the door. “And I’m not even sure I want to buy a home with someone who practically proposed to me on national television and hasn’t breathed a word about it since!”

I stormed to the bedroom and threw myself on the quilt. Like a child.