Proving Paul's Promise(9)

“We talk.” He gestures toward his brothers, who are all draped around the room like furniture. Really big, good-looking furniture.

“Of course, you do,” I say. I pull the thumbtack from the ad and take a deep breath.

“Go easy on him,” he says again.

“Fuck that,” I reply.

He grins and shrugs. “I can’t say I didn’t try.” He takes my shoulders and turns me toward Paul’s office. “Go Friday on his ass.” He slaps me on the butt while Pete and Sam snicker and high-five one another.

I walk to the back of the shop and knock on Paul’s office door since it’s closed. That usually means he wants to be left alone. “What?” he calls.

I open the door and stick my head in. “Do you always answer the door like that?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. He has the phone balanced between his shoulder and his ear. “What do you want?”

“Are you on the phone?”

“On hold, Friday. What do you want?”

I slap the paper down on his desk and hold my flat palm over it. “What the f*ck is this?”

He looks down at it. “That was a perfectly good invitation, until somebody f*cked it up with hearts,” he growls.

I look down at it. “I kind of like the hearts,” I admit.

“Next time, I’ll use hearts,” he says. He smiles.

“You’re looking for a roommate?” I ask. I toy with my lip piercing until his gaze lands there, and then I force myself to stop. “Since when?”

“Since I found out you’re homeless,” he says.

“I’m not homeless,” I protest.

“Where are you living after today?” he asks.

I’m not at all sure about that, but he doesn’t need to know it. “Shut up,” I say instead.

He pushes the paper toward me. “I have an extra room. You need a place to stay. Let’s not make it more than it is, okay?”

“That’s all you’d expect?” I ask, hating how quiet my voice suddenly gets.

“You could be pregnant, Friday,” he says. “What else would I want from you?”

My breath catches. He is so right. I have been looking at this like it’s all about us, but it’s not. It’s all about this baby I have to protect for nine months, a baby he’s now fully aware of, even if he’s not aware of the details.

“How much?” I ask.

“How much can you afford?” he asks.

He knows full well how much money I make; he pays me. But he isn’t aware of the money I make doing commissioned portraits and other artwork.

He waves a hand in the air. “Don’t worry about what it costs,” he says. “Pay me whatever you can. The room is just sitting there empty. And if you live with me, I won’t have to worry about you being homeless.”

I snort. “Like you’d worry anyway.”

His brow rises. “I worry. I worry about you all the f*cking time. But if you live with me, I won’t have to. So take pity on me and just take the f*cking room, dammit.”

“Okay.”

He looks surprised. “Okay?”

“Yes.”

He grins. “Okay.”

“Can I come over tonight?” I ask.

He nods and brings the phone back to his mouth and starts to speak. I close his door.

Reagan’s parents are coming tonight. I was going to go to Logan and Emily’s, but I’d rather not have to hear their bed thumping against the wall all night. Emily is almost nine months pregnant and those two still go at it like rabbits.

Wait. Will I have to hear Paul’s bed thumping against the wall? Shit. I didn’t even think about that.





Paul

I try to clean up a little bit since I know Friday is coming over. I toss out all the pizza boxes and put clean sheets on Matt’s old bed. His bedroom is right next to mine, and I can already imagine what it’s going to be like lying in my bed fantasizing about her naked in hers.

“You’re a little bit whipped,” Sam says from behind me.

I turn around and scowl at him. “I am not.”

“Yes, you are. I think it’s cute.” He grins at me as he balances himself in the doorway, dangling from the overhang like a monkey. “You have a crush.”

“I do not have a crush,” I say.

“Oh, you totally have a crush,” he sings out.

I can’t let him tease me like that, so I chase him out of Matt’s old room and down the hallway into the living room. He jumps over the back of the couch, and I go over it after him. I catch him around the waist and knock him to the floor. He’s wiry and quick, and I don’t remember him being quite as strong as he is now, but I pin him to the floor anyway.

I must be getting old because it’s harder to hold him down than it used to be. A lot harder. Sam’s a collegiate athlete, and he’s even being scouted by a couple of pro teams, so he’s in peak physical shape all the time. Unlike me. Thankfully, I have size on my side.

A knock sounds at the door. I yell, “Come in!” without letting Sam up. He grunts and shoves at me, but I sit on him. The door opens and a man walks in carrying a box. I freeze, because he looks familiar.

“Get off me, you big f*cker,” Sam says. The man raises his brow at us and looks back at Friday, who is dragging a suitcase.