3
I’d imagined Jake’s place more than once.
I pictured something a little chaotic, like the kind of place that smelled like cedar and whiskey, with laundry half-folded on the couch and a guitar leaning in the corner, even if he didn’t play. He had that kind of energy. Messy-hot. Careless, but somehow put together.
But when he opened the door and stepped aside to let me in, I blinked at the neatness. It had white walls, clean lines, a black leather couch, no clutter, no piles of books or forgotten mugs on the coffee table. A single framed print of some abstract shapes hung over the fireplace like a placeholder.
“This is... tidy,” I said, stepping inside and unzipping my jacket.
He smiled faintly and took it from me. “I like things simple.”
It wasn’t cold, but I shivered anyway. Jake w
