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He smiles. Actually smiles. And oh, dear Lord. The man has dimples. Dimples. On that face. That’s just unfair.

I stare.

“What?” he asks.

“You smiled.”

“I smiled earlier.”

“Barely. That was more of a facial twitch.”

“Goodnight, Noelle.” His voice has gone all deep and rumbly again.

I should probably stop noticing that. But I already know I won’t. “Goodnight, Maverick.” I start walking backward. Because apparently I have completely forgotten how hallways work.

I get three steps away before he speaks again. “Your room is the other direction.”

I stop. Look over my shoulder. Then turn around. “I knew that.”

“Obviously.”

“I’ve only lived here a month.”

“You’ve lived here long enough to decorate every square inch of my home with Christmas paraphernalia.”

“Good point.” I take two steps toward my actual bedroom. Then remember something. “Oh!”

He looks at me. “What?”

“I put Christmas sheets on your bed.”

He stares.

I grin.

Then I turn and hurry around the corner before he can ask questions.

I make it into my bedroom before I start laughing. Quietly. Because Shiloh is asleep. And because I have apparently lost my mind.

I married a stranger. A billionaire stranger. A billionaire stranger who looks like he could bench-press a pickup truck and has the nerve to have dimples.

Dimples!

That was not in the paperwork. I feel like that should have been disclosed. I change into my pajamas, wash my face, and climb into bed.

Then I lie there. Staring at the ceiling. Thinking about Shiloh. The four-year-old boy with the big brown eyes and an obsession with dinosaurs loves me. My throat tightens again.

I pull the blankets up to my chin. For years, I had Grandma and Grandpa. They were my family. My whole world. Then they were gone. And I didn’t know what to do with all the love I still had to give.

But now there’s Shiloh. A little boy who needs someone to cut the crust off his sandwiches and remember which dinosaur is his favorite. A little boy who loves me.

And I love him. I press a hand over my chest. This was supposed to be a fresh start. A practical arrangement. Thirteen years and eight months of being useful to someone.

Then I’d figure out the rest of my life. Except I think maybe I’ve already found something I didn’t know I was looking for. Not just a place to live. Not just a job.

Something that feels suspiciously like belonging. My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I reach for it.

A message from Maverick.