Connor
We were back at Whitcombe & Sons at 2pm sharp. Alistair was waiting for us with a different smile this time. Smaller. Professional. Like he'd been scolded by his own reflection that morning.
"Mr. Rennison. Mr. Chernyshevsky-Coleman," he said, gesturing to the car outside. "I've arranged for us to see three properties. All within your brief of 5 to 6 bedrooms, with space for entertaining."
Edward squeezed my hand. "5 to 6," he murmured. "Because apparently our families are gigantic and we host everyone."
"Because we do," I said. "Christmas. Birthdays. Liam will want to bring the entire Chernyshevsky clan."
"And your side will bring rugby teams," Edward said.
Alistair pretended not to hear us.
House One was first.
It was in a new development just outside the city walls. All clean lines and white paint and floor-to-ceiling glass. The driveway was massive. The garden was perfect, like someone had trimmed it with a ruler.
