“Floors will dry faster than you, huh, big guy?” He gives the dog another pat, then gestures for me to follow him down the hall.

There’s a heavy table just to the right—more marble, more wrought iron—holding an elaborate flower arrangement, and when I pass by, I let one finger trail over the nearest blossom.

It feels cool and silky, slightly damp under my finger, so I know the flowers are real, and I wonder if he—or his wife, let’s be real—have new ones brought in every day.

The hallway leads to a massive living room with high ceilings. I’d expected something like the Reeds’ house again, a sea of neutrals, but the furniture in this room is bright and looks comfortable. There’s a pair of sofas in a deep cranberry, plus three wingback chairs with bold prints that don’t match, but manage to go together. The floors are light hardwood, and I spot a few rugs, also in bright colors.

Two tall lamps throw warm pools of golden light on the floor, and the fireplace is framed by built-in bookshelves.

“You have books,” I say, and Eddie stops, turning to me with his hands in his pockets, his eyebrows raised.

I nod at the shelves, which are crammed full of hardbacks. “Just … a lot of these houses have that shelving, but I usually don’t see books.”

The Reeds have a few framed photos, some weird-looking vases, and a whole bunch of blank space on their built-ins. The Clarks prefer china plates on little stands with the odd silver bowl.

Eddie’s still watching me, and I can’t read his expression. Finally, he says, “You’re observant.”

I’m not sure if that was supposed to be a compliment or not, and I suddenly wish I hadn’t said anything at all.

I turn my attention to the wall of windows looking out onto the backyard. Like the front, it’s a little shaggier than the other yards in the neighborhood, the grass higher, the bushes not as uniform, but it’s prettier than those other cookie-cutter lawns, too. This property backs up to woods, tall trees stretching out toward the gray sky.

Eddie follows my gaze. “We bought the land behind this plot so that we’d never have to look at the back of another house,” he said. He’s still holding his car keys, and they jangle in his hand, a nervous tic that doesn’t seem to fit the rest of him.

I think about what he just said—we.

It’s stupid to be disappointed. Of course, a man like this has a wife. There are no single men in Thornfield Estates except for Tripp Ingraham, and he’s a widower. Single men don’t live in places like this.

“It’s pretty,” I tell Eddie now. “Private.”

Lonely, I also think, but don’t say.

Clearing his throat, Eddie turns from the window and walks into the kitchen. I follow behind, Bear still trudging in my wake, my coat dripping on the floor.

The kitchen is as grand as the rest of the house with a massive stainless-steel refrigerator, a dark granite island, and beautiful cream-colored cabinets. Everything seems to gleam, even the man standing in front of the Keurig, loading up a coffee pod.

“How do you take it?” he asks me, his back still to me, and I perch on the edge of a stool, Bear’s leash in one hand.

“Black,” I reply. The truth is, I don’t really like black coffee, but it’s always the cheapest thing at any café, so it’s become a habit.

“I see, you’re tough, then.”

Eddie smiles at me over his shoulder, his eyes very blue, and my face goes hot again.

Married, I remind myself.

But when he hands me the cup of coffee, I glance down at his hands. Fine-fingered, manicured, a smattering of dark hair over his knuckles.

And no ring.

“So, tell me about yourself, Jane the Dog-Walker,” he says, turning back to make his own cup of coffee. “Are you from Birmingham?”

“No.” I blow across the surface of my coffee cup. “I was born in Arizona, lived mostly out West until last year.”

True, but vague: my preferred way of explaining my background to new people.

Eddie takes his mug from the Keurig machine and faces me, leaning back against the counter. “How’d you end up down here?”

“I was looking for something new, and a friend from school lived here, offered me a room.”

There’s a trick to spinning lies. You have to embed the truth in there, just a glimmer of it. That’s the part that will catch people, and it’s what makes the rest of your lies sound like truth, too.

I was looking for something new. I was. Because I was running from something old.

A friend from school. A guy I met in a group home after my last foster situation ended badly.

Nodding, Eddie takes a sip of his coffee, and I fight the urge to squirm in my seat, to ask why the hell he brought me into his house to make small talk, where his wife is, why he isn’t at work or wherever it was he was going in such a hurry this morning.

But he seems happy to just sit there in the kitchen with me, drinking coffee and looking at me like I’m a puzzle he’s working out.

I can’t help but feel like I cracked my head on the road this morning and dropped into some alternate universe where rich, handsome men seem interested in me.

“What about you?” I ask. “Are you from Birmingham originally?”

“My wife was.”

Was. I hold that word, that tense, in my mind.

“She, uh. She grew up around here, wanted to move back,” he goes on, and his fingers are drumming on the side of his mug, that same gesture I’d noticed earlier in the street. Then he puts the mug down and leans on the island in front of him, arms crossed.

“You’re staying in Mountain Brook?” he asks, and I raise my eyebrows, making him laugh. “Is this creepy? The third-degree thing?”

It maybe should be, but instead, it’s nice to have someone actually interested in me—not the fake, feigned interest of Mrs. Reed, but something genuine, real. Plus, I’d rather sit here talking and drinking coffee in his gorgeous kitchen than walk Bear in the rain.

I let my fingers trace a vein in the marble as I say, “Only mildly creepy. Tier One on the creep meter.”

He smiles again, and something tingles at the base of my spine. “I can deal with Tier One.”

I smile back, relaxing a little. “And no, I’m not staying in Mountain Brook. My friend’s place is in Center Point.”

Center Point is an ugly little town about twenty miles away, once part of the suburban sprawl of Birmingham, now a haven of strip malls and fast-food joints. There are still nice neighborhoods tucked in and around it, but on the whole, it feels like another planet compared to Thornfield Estates, and Eddie’s expression reflects that.