The luggage was lined up neatly by the front door, two sleek suitcases and a smaller leather weekender bag—Ella's, of course, courtesy of Nicholas's insistence that she "needed" one that matched her energy. (His words, not hers.)
The early morning light streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, spilling across the marble like melted butter. The whole place smelled faintly of coffee, clean linen, and the lemony polish the housekeeper had used the day before.
Nicholas stood in the foyer, impossibly relaxed in a soft navy T-shirt and linen trousers that hugged him just right. He was barefoot, sipping espresso from a tiny cup, watching Ella with unhurried amusement.
She was in the living room, twirling once in front of the hallway mirror.
"Is this too much?" she asked, gesturing to her outfit—a pale-blue dress with delicate straps and a floaty hem that swayed with every step. "I feel like I look like a Pinterest board."
