Isn't She Lovely (Redemption 0.5)(23)

“Come on, you’d be doing me a solid,” Ethan says, giving me a smile that probably has had many a panty dropping over the years. I stay strong.

“I’d rather be dead.”

He gives an exasperated sigh. “I figured you’d say that.”

“Uh-huh.” So what was with the kiss?

“Yup,” he says, shifting slightly to pull something out of his back pocket.

I raise my eyebrows in disinterest at the object. “A fancy-looking key fob? What am I supposed to do with that? It’s plastic and electronic—it wouldn’t even be a makeshift self-defense weapon.”

He glances down at the small gray key in his hand. “Seriously? You see a key and your first thought is self-defense? What kind of f*cked-up world do you live in?”

I glare at him. “You try having boobs while walking around alone in New York. Then we’ll talk.”

“Right,” he says, gaze dropping to the anatomy in question. It should bother me that he’s so obvious about being a boob man, but after that kiss I find I’m wanting him to do more than just look at them.

Shit. The realization that I’m this close to lusting after a guy who couldn’t be more wrong for me has me bolting to my feet. He catches the beer before it can topple over, and stands slowly to tower over me.

“You never asked what the key is for,” he says quietly.

“Okay, fine. What’s the stupid key for?”

“My place.”

My stomach feels like it drops a good six inches. “Wait, you want me to pose as your live-in girlfriend? What is this, a Pygmalion version of school-project partners with benefits?”

“Don’t be so dramatic. Although it did work for what’s-his-name in Pretty Woman.”

I glower. “Too bad I’m not a prostitute, then.”

Ethan shrugs. “Offer still stands.”

I close my eyes and shake my head slightly. “I’m not even sure I know what the offer is.”

He takes a half step closer to me. “One month. You lose the earrings, the boots, and the attitude, and do your best to convince my parents that we’re crazy in love or something.”

“But—”

He puts a finger over my lips and our eyes lock. “And in return, you can spend the rest of the summer staying in my second bedroom.”

I try to calm my racing brain. An entire month of not sleeping on the couch? Of not impatiently waiting for David and Leah to finish having shower sex so I can go pee?

“Free rent?” I hear myself ask.

Oh my God, I’m not seriously considering this.

Am I?

He gives a little smile and removes his finger. “Let’s just say you can pay me with your charming manners as you woo my parents into getting off my back.”

I dig my front teeth into my bottom lip to keep myself from accepting. Completely changing myself for a guy, even temporarily, just to avoid sleeping on a couch? I’m not that desperate.

No sooner has that thought crossed my mind than the unmistakable sound of rocking furniture comes from the bedroom, followed by a guttural cry that sounds a lot like “Yes! Ride that big, bad donkey dick!”

Donkey dick? Is this seriously happening to me?

Ethan’s eyes are on the ceiling, and he’s trying not to laugh.

“Take me to pound town, baby!” This from the bedroom.

Ethan grins down at me. “Did he ever take you to pound town?”

“Shut it,” I snap, now fully gnawing on my lip. “Would I get my own bathroom?”

“Yup. Even has a separate shower and tub.”

I almost groan. Bubble baths are kind of my weakness. Or at least they were before I moved to Manhattan, where there are entire apartments smaller than a bathtub.

“No funny business,” I say, jabbing a finger at him.

He puts a hand over his chest, looking very Boy Scout. “No funny business in private. Only when there’s an audience. Then we perform.”

I fan myself. “Whew! Can’t handle all the romance in here.”

“You in or out, Kendrick?”

God help me—I think I’m in.





Chapter Eight


Ethan


Sometimes I pride myself on not being a chauvinistic jerk.

I don’t clip my toenails in bed. I don’t grunt when I eat steak. I don’t wear my pants down around my ass because it’s “cool.”

But at the end of the day I’m a guy, and spending Saturday in a beauty parlor is up there on my no-way-in-hell list. I’d rather be on the boat. Or at the gym. Or just about anywhere else.

However, there’s no way I can leave Stephanie to get through this makeover unescorted. I had a hard enough time convincing her that the makeover was necessary in the first place. In the end, I had to whip out my phone and show her pictures of my mom, in pearls. My dad, in a suit. My family home: marble, granite, a winding staircase, and a professional chef.

She got it. One doesn’t mingle with the Price family in combat boots.

And damn, in the light of day, I don’t know why she’s mingling with the Price family at all. As far as ideas go, this is pretty much the worst one since someone decided to skimp on the Titanic’s lifeboats.

The real kicker is that it’s my own fault. Her snotty implications about me not pulling my weight on the project got under my skin, and I watched all those stupid movies, half out of boredom, half to prove her wrong.