Ladies Man (Manwhore #4)(32)

“Nah, I don’t want to jinx my win.”

“You’re superstitious? Why are all athletes superstitious?”

A smile touches his eyes as he sits by me. “That’s for me to know and for you to ponder.”

“Come on.”

I punch his shoulder.

He stops my second punch by opening his palm to catch it.

“Gina?” a voice calls from the bedroom.

Tahoe looks at me ruefully, raising his brows.

I giggle and go tiptoe up the hall and close the bedroom door, not before apologetically whispering, “We’ll be out here talking, okay? Tahoe just stopped by for a snack.”

“Fine. Don’t wake me please, babe.”

I shut the door and pad back into the living room. “He’s grumpy when he’s tired.” I drop back on the couch. “I’m glad you’re here, I actually couldn’t sleep. I’ve been circling advertisements as much as possible.”

“What have we got here? Humboldt Park?” He scans all of my circled classifieds but keeps his finger on the Humboldt Park option that has a double circle around it. “There’s no way you’re living there.”

“I don’t know, Roth, it’s starting to appeal. Maybe it’ll keep you from visiting at ungodly hours.”

“But it won’t keep the rapists, killers, and gangsters away.” He lifts his brows.

“You’re so picky. What do you think of this one?” I show him another.

He laughs sardonically. “No way in hell you’re living there alone, Regina. Let’s find you something in the Loop.”

“I live near the Loop already, it’s a bit more expensive.”

He doesn’t listen as he grabs my pen and starts circling some other places. “Bring your laptop, let’s get a look at some pics,” he says, patting my butt fondly as I get up.

I swear it burns for the whole hour afterward with the imprint of his hand.

We end up spending the next couple hours looking for good places for me to live. For the first time since the Pier, I feel like I’m actually talking—really talking—again with someone. I feel a little more alive than I was before he stepped through my door.

“Want to know something, Regina?” He leans back and crosses his arms behind his head with a thoughtful look on his face. “A friend of mine owns a prime piece of property at the best location in the Loop. They’re demolishing it to rebuild new apartment complexes but permits could take up to a year. I bet he’d let you rent something for pennies in the meantime.”

My heart stops from the excitement. “You think so?”

“Hell, I know so.” He rumples my hair and flashes his pearly whites, which look extra white against his scruffy blond beard. “You’ll be set up for at least a year. Gives you time to figure out exactly where you want to go.”

“You’d call him for me?” I ask dubiously.

He presses a button on his cell. “I just did.” He winks and lifts his phone to his ear, then proceeds to leave a message, his voice low.

Smiling, I shut my laptop and fold the newspapers neatly into a pile, exhaling a sigh of relief. I never realized I was starting to feel homeless until now, when the real possibility of finding a new home has come up.



*



Less than an hour after he leaves, after I’ve showered and am ready to hit the bed, I get a text from him saying that it’s all set and that his friend William Blackstone will show me the apartment as soon as I’m ready.



Me: Thank you, amazing T-Rex!!!!!!



Him: Don’t make plans next Friday afternoon. You’re coming to my game.





GAME


I missed the game, and I am haunted by it. The same day of Tahoe’s lacrosse match, Martha needed me to cover for one of my coworkers. I’m so mad about that. Because the reality is that he is always there for me. And I want to be there for him. So half a week after the missed game, I lie in bed, sleepless, and glance at my “missed calls” screen, where his name is written next to a (2). I decide to stop avoiding the issue, put on my big girl panties and call him.

“I can’t sleep,” I say immediately after he answers.

There’s a long silence, as if he’s taken aback by my call. At this hour.

“Why can’t you sleep?” His voice is raspy, as if I caught him sleeping, or maybe even having sex.

“I want to go to your next game.”

Another silence. “You’re messing with me.” His voice sounds completely disbelieving.

“No! Why? What? I’m not invited anymore?” I prod.

“I’m not in the city,” I hear a squeak as if he gets out of bed, a soft moaning protest, and then a door shut, and silence, “but I’ll be there for this weekend’s game.”

“Cool.” I grin happily.

“I’ll text you the time. On one condition.” There’s a warning in his voice.

I groan in dread.

“You’ve got to paint my number on your cheek,” he says next.

“Um, no?” I say.

“Well then, it was nice saying hi.”

My heart stops when I realize he’s about to hang up. “Fine! What is it? Sixty-nine?” I ask with mock boredom.