Roommate Arrangement (Divorced Men's Club #1)(36)

Two steps forward, one back. Block. Swing. Lunge to the left. I’m caught up, seeing it play out in my head, when the front door opens and Payne walks in to find me kneeling on one knee, umbrella held above my head like goddamn Simba.

Oh, fuck my life.

Payne’s lips twitch as I shoot to my feet. “Am I interrupting?”

“No.”

He doesn’t look convinced and my heart sinks as I realize that first, I’m going to have to explain this to him, and second, I really need to pay better attention to the time. “Fine. I have a sword fight coming up, and I was working through it. There’s just this one part …” I glance back at the paper and raise my umbrella, trying to visualize how Jaciel will block and slice consecutively.

Then I realize the umbrella is in the air again, and Payne is still watching.

I drop my arms. “Nothing to see here.”

“I dunno. Seems fun to me.”

I sag. “Funny, you mean. Shit. This is one of those things, isn’t it? That normal people don’t do?”

Payne gets this crease between his eyebrows as his stare runs over me. I can tell he’s thinking. Maybe trying to come up with a way to tell me I’ll never be dating material.

“I have no idea what you mean.” He spares me a grin before heading for the hall.

I assume he’s giving me privacy to finish this, but I’m not so sure I want him walking about again and finding me in who knows what position. It’s lucky I hesitate too because he’s back a moment later.

Carrying a broom handle.

He points it at me. “You’re on, Bo-Bo.”

“Wait. What?”

“Let’s work through your scene.”

“You’re going to help me?”

“What are roommates for?”

Yep. Just like that, I’m in love.

My face is hot, but I’m smiling wide as I teach him the steps I’ve choreographed. The more we practice, the better we get, and it highlights the parts that work and the parts that don’t.

“What if instead of this”—Payne swings upward—“it’s more like—” He spins and slices upward.

It’s clear he’s an athletic guy because he makes even sword fighting with a broom handle look hot as hell.

“Yep, that works,” I say, jotting it down and trying to pretend like I wasn’t checking out the way his arms muscles flexed with the movements. “I think we need more terrain though. For some of the jumps.”

“I got you.” Payne tilts the couch back and moves the coffee table toward where I’m supposed to jump onto a bench. That should work.

“From the top?” he asks.

“This is so much easier with a second person.”

“Well, sword fighting usually requires two people.”

“Both types, in fact.”

It takes him a moment to get it, but when he does, his eyes fly to mine. Instead of awkwardness, I detect interest there. “I can’t say I’ve ever tried that kind of sword fighting.”

“You’re missing out.”

“You have?” He sounds a second away from laughing.

I point at my face. “Weird, remember? Let’s just say I tried it once and never again.”

“Why?”

“The guy I was with said it ruined the mood.” I shrug because it’s no big deal, even if I was embarrassed at the time.

“Well, he was a moron. I bet you’re an awesome sword fighter, euphemism or otherwise. You’ve written enough of them.”

And I’m not sure what catches me off guard most—the sex talk or him mentioning my book. “Ah. You’ve already, umm, read some?”

“No idea what you mean.” He winks. “I’m not reading anything. I definitely haven’t smashed through the first half of this awesome book when normally I can’t make it through a few pages.”

I simultaneously love every word out of his mouth and wish he’d stop talking immediately because I struggle with compliments. “Okay. Good. Definitely not reading.”

“Nope.” He raises his makeshift sword. “Think we can make it through the whole thing this time?”

“Let’s try.”

We both lift our swords, and then, I lunge. He blocks me, and I spin immediately, trying to get in a hit to the side, but Payne knocks me off-balance before I make contact. He kicks at my leg, I hit his side, and then we bring our swords together. Somehow, we make it through the steps without screwing up, and I’m about to drop my umbrella when Payne goes off book.

He whacks my ribs, my thigh, before I block him.

“What are you—”

“Think you can beat me?”

“You’re on.”

It’s nothing like our practice. Where that was rehearsed and careful, this is a complete mess. Payne gets in a hit to my jaw before I stab the umbrella at his abs, then his back. He grunts in pain, hand flying at my face as I try to wrestle the broom handle off him. Our makeshift weapons are flailing before we drop them, forgotten, and then it becomes a competition of who can get the other to the ground first.

“Damn.” He grunts. “You’re a lot stronger than you look.”

“Yep.” I get him into a headlock, shoving him toward the ground, but before he hits, Payne wraps an arm around my waist, heaves me over his shoulder, then staggers us toward the couch. He collapses into it, sends the couch flying back upright, and in my surprise— “Fuck.” Payne releases me as he folds in half, clutching at his balls.