Roommate Arrangement (Divorced Men's Club #1)(45)
Hover. Be here. I rest against the side of the door. “I’m good.”
“It’s fine anyway,” Lee says, and I track his hand as it comes to rest on Beau’s lower back. “We were leaving.”
Beau nods. “See you later, Payne.”
I stand there, watching them walk down the hallway, knowing I shouldn’t have interfered but also knowing I couldn’t have held back.
Art and Griffin are right.
I do want to keep Beau until I’m ready.
Fuck if that doesn’t make me a total asshole.
Even that thought can’t stop me from leaning out into the hall and calling after them. “I’ll wait up!”
18
Beau
I wish I could say Payne’s behavior was the worst part of the night, but that was only the tip of the iceberg.
And Lee doesn’t even realize it.
When we passed a homeless man on the way into the restaurant, Lee pulled me close and whispered that they should keep the footpath clear because it’s a “nice, family area.” He didn’t stop touching me until we took our seats, despite me moving away, and he keeps pointing out he’s paying. Like, a lot.
We’ll get the banquet platters. Don’t worry, Beau, I’m paying.
Why don’t you get a cocktail? It’s on me.
Make sure you leave room for popcorn. I’ll buy us the biggest one.
I can’t help comparing it to how Payne didn’t fight me on paying for the tour. How he doesn’t push me to take money, even after he offered me rent now that he’s working, and I told him I’d prefer for our agreement to stay the same.
It makes him look comfortable with me.
With Lee, there’s no connection, which is probably all on me, but I can’t stop picking at the little things he does.
He brought me to a Thai restaurant, which is fine, but then proceeded to order for the both of us, and the dishes he chose were the hottest ones on the menu. I don’t like spicy food. At all.
So while I pretend to like his selection so he’s not offended, in reality I push it around my plate and eat as much plain rice as I can stomach. He also never. Stops. Talking.
I’d noticed it at Marty’s, but I put his control of the conversation down to nerves and the fact I wasn’t saying much. But we’re on a date. Why am I here if he doesn’t actually want to get to know me?
I hate small talk and discussing things about myself, but I also know it’s an important part of the getting-to-know-you step that needs to be ticked off before we can move forward.
So far all I’ve worked out is that Lee talks with food in his cheek when he gets excited, cuts me off when I take too long to answer a question or get my words out right, and thinks people who eat blue cheese only do it to look superior.
I mean … I don’t get the appeal, but I’m not going to judge people for it.
“Where are our cocktails?” he grumbles. “You know, I’ve been noticing lately there are less and less servers in these places. The government keeps taxing the business owners and raising minimum wage, so they can’t employ enough people to do the jobs. Whereas if there were enough servers focused on good service, I’d tip more than generously.”
“Yeah, but not everyone does that.”
“Well, with service like this, what do you expect?”
The server shows up with our cocktails, saving me from a reply.
“Tell me about this book thing,” Lee says.
I blink, surprised he’s actually asked at all. The problem is “book thing” is a very broad topic, and I have no idea where to start. My feet bounce under the table. “W-what did you want to—”
“You’re an author, yeah? How did you get into it?”
That, I can work with. “I read a lot as a kid, then decided to try my own. I won a competition to meet with a literary agent, who gave me some awesome pointers on my book and asked me to resubmit if I made the changes he suggested. At the time I thought it was cool he was interested at all, so I did as he said, resubmitted and …” My book went to auction, had multiple bids, and sold for a lot more than I would have ever guessed. The translation rights came quickly, and then the movie was optioned, even though last I heard there was no movement there, which is typical.
“Wow, that’s really cool.” Lee takes a bite of sizzling beef. “So you’re a real author, then?”
I pause. “A real author?”
“You know, with a publisher. You’re not just out there, throwing whatever up online.”
“You mean self-publishing?”
He scoffs. “Can they even call it publishing? I swear, half of those books are barely legible.”
“Have you read any?”
“Nope. I don’t need to.” He gives me what I’m sure he thinks is a charming smile, but there’s a chunk of basil caught in his teeth. “But I’m sure you know this already.”
I don’t at all. I want to point out all the ways he’s wrong and that self-publishing has benefited authors and readers more than anything, but the confrontation gets caught in my throat. I’ve actually been looking at the mismatched snippets I’ve been writing and wondering whether to “throw” those up online. My publisher would never accept them. Even as part of a coherent story, they’re too niche.