He doesn’t glance back at me, just continues climbing the steps to the landing—but I do catch a low chuckle. He can’t hide that, but he can try.

The room he shows me is bigger than I was expecting it to be—much larger than my entire dorm room and—

“Here’s the bathroom.”

SAY WHAT NOW?!

What?

“It has a bathroom?”

“There’s no tub, just a shower, but—”

Who even cares!

I practically shove him out of my way, beelining for this glorious private bathroom, not unlike the one I have at home at my parents’ house.

Glass-enclosed shower stall.

Single sink with a decent-sized counter for all my makeup and crap. Lower cabinets for storage.

Toilet.

It’s basically the Taj Mahal of student living—not many people can lay claim to a private bathroom.

The rest of the bedroom is furnished, which is another delightful surprise and means I wouldn’t have to hunt down furniture, thus saving time, money, and effort.

Whoa—you’re getting ahead of yourself, Georgia. Slow your roll.

Sorry not sorry, the bathroom is seducing me.

My own sink?

My own shower?

“What other treasures are you hiding from me in this house?” I giggle, walking back into the bedroom from the bath.

“Closet?”

Ooh, I hadn’t thought to look in the closet!

There’s another door in the room and I go to it, yanking it open unceremoniously.

Angels sing the hallelujah chorus.

Flowers begin blooming outside, the sky opens up, and did I mention angels singing?

“How is the closet this big?” I twirl inside, arms stretched wide. It’s so much larger than what I need! I barely have enough to fill half of it!

I’m tempted to do a cartwheel.

“You look like you’re about to have an orgasm,” Ashley says behind me, filling the doorway with his huge body.

I whack him in the arm without thinking twice.

“Could you not?”

Ugh. Honestly.

“You don’t bring up sex to your potential new roommate. It’s tacky.”

“I wasn’t bringing up sex. You do know you can have an orgasm without shagging someone, don’t you?”

He’s mocking me, and I blush at the casual reference to masturbating.

Speaking of which…

How thin are these walls?

“Yes I know you can have an orgasm without…shagging someone. I wasn’t born yesterday, you know.” And I’m not a virgin, although I might as well be.

I just used the word shagging instead of bang, which is so British-sounding of me.

I wonder if I’ll start using British words in everyday life when I move in with him, or start speaking with an accent like Madonna did when she lived in London.

If I move in with him.

If.

Ashley seems pleased that I’m happy with the bathroom, closet, and bedroom, chest puffed slightly, cocky grin stretched across his mouth.

“I don’t think there’s anything else to show you.” He pauses. “Oh. Yeah, there is. Follow me.”

Back down the stairs, through the dining room, through the kitchen, out the side door and past his truck parked next to the house.

There’s a detached garage out near the backyard, and he punches the code for the keypad on the door, pushing through once it beeps and blinks green.

It’s a small at-home gym.

Weight bench.

Free weights.

Rowing machine.

Treadmill and elliptical.

Mirrors line the back wall, another wall is painted charcoal gray, a dry erase board with his goals hanging on it. A calendar. Charts. Next to all that, other equipment: jump ropes, resistance bands, yoga mats.

It’s neat as a pin.

Clean.

Organized.

“Um. What is this place?”

Who is this guy?

He’s living like a man in his mid-thirties with his shit together and his life on track and I’ve never been more confused.

Is this how they raise them up in England? To be self-sufficient and self-starting and not fuck around when they’re in college, unlike their American counterparts who love getting drunk on the weekends and pissing their time away?

“This is the gym.”

“I know it’s the gym, I’m just…wow. This is…insanely cool.”

I walk to the bench press and straddle it, lying on my back, hat falling to the ground as I stare up at the ceiling.

My head looks to the side. “Is that a fridge with water bottles inside?” It’s a small refrigerator with a glass front, stocked with water bottles and sports drinks.

“Yeah. You want one?”

He’s so hospitable, and I wonder if he’s this nice to everyone.

“No thanks.”

But honestly.

I’m impressed.

“There’s no membership fee to join.”

“I use the gym at school,” I scoff, somewhat uncharitably. He’s being nice and I’m being a brat because I’m not sure what to do with myself.

“Yeah, but sometimes it gets crowded or the machine you want is occupied.”

“This isn’t a sales pitch.” I glance around, feigning indifference, as if I see garage home gyms like this daily. To be fair, I’ve never seen a garage home gym as badass as this anywhere, online included.

“I’m just pointing out fact. If I want to work out at ten at night, I can.”

I frown. “If I worked out at ten, I would be wide awake until three.”

“Huh. Maybe that explains why I’m awake until three.”

He winks at me before picking up what looks like a twenty-pound weight and beginning to do hammer curls.

Biceps strain, and I have to look away. “Would you stop?”

He blows out a puff of air as if the action is strenuous.

He is definitely showing off.

Ashley’s arm bends, and he kisses the bulging muscle. “Welcome to the gu—”

“Do not say gun show.”

When he flexes again, I lose it, erupting into a fit of giggles and practically falling off the weight bench. I reach down, scoop up my hat, plunk it back on my head.

Ashley sets the dumbbells back onto the rack.

“Should we eat?”

I thought he would never ask, and my ears perk up.

Now we’re talking! “You were serious about feeding me?”

I didn’t see any food sitting out when we passed through the kitchen just now, although it did smell good.

“Duh, we both gotta eat.”

He’s becoming a real vocabulary slouch living in the States, and I don’t know much about his mom, but I bet she wouldn’t approve of his slang.

Entering the kitchen again, Ashley goes straight to the oven, pulling it open and peering inside.

Stands and pulls open a drawer, retrieving two red hot pads.

Spellbound, I watch him slide a pan out of the oven: simmering chicken and vegetables, the smell hitting my nose in steamy ribbons.

“It’s not exciting, but it’s healthy.”

“Any food that’s not from the cafeteria or that I don’t have to prepare myself is basically gourmet. I’ll eat anything.”

The pan gets set on the center island.

“Is that a compliment?”