Rough Ride (Chaos #5)(25)

The walls were creamy white and had my Toulouse-Lautrec prints and other wall stuff already up on them. My flat screen had been mounted on the creamy-painted brick above the freestanding fireplace. And that fireplace was set in a wall of that brick that sat in the middle of the living room with a spiral staircase off to the side.

My furniture, that was in yellows (couch) and denims (armchair and some of the toss pillows on the couch), which I’d always thought was awesome, but had never looked like much in the pad I shared with Beck, looked amazing against the buttery-white walls and the hardwood floors (though I now needed a rug).

To the left, there was a dining area that led off from a kitchen (which meant I also needed a dining room table).

The hardwood floors stretched everywhere, including the kitchen that was open to the space entirely, didn’t even have an island or bar. But the big window at the back, the pearly-tiled backsplash, the window-fronted, milky-painted cupboards and the uninterrupted space made it seem bright, crisp and airy, but also warm and welcoming. All this juxtaposed with some sharply angled parts of the ceiling just made it interesting.

I wandered the kitchen then came out and moved between the fireplace and the spiral staircase. I saw a little alcove at the back that was somewhat roomy but mostly snug that could be a reading nook. But Chaos (or their old ladies) had set it up with my desk and laptop, making it my office.

And again, my white, sectional corner desk with its long arm and the kickass wicker rolling chair I’d found hadn’t seemed like much in Beck and my extra bedroom in our apartment, but there it looked crazy-cool.

Also, with the desk fit into the corner and down the wall, I could still fit an armchair and ottoman in there, making it a dual-purpose space, adding the little reading nook.

Some of this space was an addition, definitely the powder room I saw through an open doorway at the back.

I knew this because it jutted out past the kitchen and had French doors at the side aimed toward the corner of the jut made from mini-den and kitchen that created a little courtyard.

This was covered in a vine-festooned pergola. It had a wood deck and some big glossy pots, but since it was February, there was nothing much there. However, in the summer it could be a riot of flowers interspersed with the garden furniture I right then decided to buy, a little piece of outside tranquility in the heart of the city.

“Rosalie?” Mom called.

I drifted down the kind of hall formed by the wall of the kitchen and the fireplace, back through the living room, and up the spiral stairs.

I stopped right at the top.

The ceilings were low, beamed, some of them angled, all painted that creamy white.

And in a dormer sat a beautiful scroll-backed, king-size bed covered with white and yellow bedclothes.

None of that mine.

Beck and I had a queen-size bed, and from what I could tell, Chaos had cleaned out our apartment so if he ever got out of jail, he’d come back to it empty.

Except our bed.

Even as I wandered the bedroom area that covered the entire house (outside the sharp eaves that cut into the space, but even so, they made it all the more awesome), I stared at that bed until I hit the master bath that was not enormous but it did have a crazy-cool soaking tub and a double-bowled vanity.

Through that was a walk-in closet that had one wall slanted but ran the length of the house. The other wall was filled with shelves, rods and drawers. It wasn’t every woman’s fantasy closet but it was better than I’d had and would more than do the trick.

“Rosie,” Mom said softly.

She’d entered the closet with me.

My clothes were hanging there.

I opened a drawer to find my panties, closed it and stared at a shelf where my collection of enameled jewelry boxes had been arranged.

“Honeypot.”

It was a one-bedroom house, essentially.

But it had been entirely renovated and it had been that beautifully. It had a two-car garage and a huge front yard. It was in a good part of Denver. So the rent was probably, but deservedly, crazy.

What could Snap possibly have to give the renters to lure them out of here?

Mom’s hand fell on my arm and I finally looked at her.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“That’s not my bed,” I told her.

“I know,” she said carefully.

“He didn’t want the bed I slept in with Beck here,” I shared. “So he bought me a new one.”

She said nothing, just studied me.

“A really nice new one,” I went on.

“I’m not sure what you want me to say,” she replied.

“Did he do that for me or for him?” I asked.

“I don’t know, honeypot. I’ve never met him.”

Knowing Snap, it was for me, and him getting something out of it was ancillary.

“They repainted,” I declared.

“I could tell,” she said.

“He has other properties,” I informed her.

“Okay.” She got closer. “Rosalie, why are you freaked?”

“Because he keeps getting better and better and I can’t have him.”

She got even closer and coaxed gently, “Explain again why you can’t have him.”

“Chaos is in a mess right now.”

“Messes get cleaned up.”

“This one is messier than most.”