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“That would just make things worse between him and I.”
I shake my head, take a deep breath, and sit next to him. Scanning his expression tones down my budding anger. There’s guilt etched all over him.
“Usually, it’s the women who make things complicated.” I rub his shoulder.
“Oh, it’s not complicated, kid. I’m just trying to avoid this ending with a bullet in one of our brains.”
I swallow past a lump.
“Maybe you forgot what it’s like in our world, since you actively tried to break away from it. But that doesn’t mean it’s calmed. A hothead like him?” He shakes his head. “We’ve saved each other’s lives more than once. If he saw us together? It would bury all of it.”
“What if we’re upfront about it?” I ask tentatively. My stomach is doing all sorts of anxious somersaults now. “Wouldn’t that be better?”
He reaches over and rubs my chin with two of his fingers, holding my face in place. His eyes scan mine, then my lips, before slowly leaning in.
My skin tingles every time he gets close.
His kiss is paralyzing when there’s no sexual tension attached to it. He’s like an oversized comforter.
No. Don’t leave.
He pulls away.
“Since you don’t want to go out, why don’t you give me that tour you were talking about?”
He turned my dial from annoyance, to melted butter, to giddiness, in a matter of a minute. I get to my feet and grab his hand.
“So! This couch you’re getting comfortable on is a hand-me-down from my mom’s basement. I’d be lying if some of my ex-boyfriends’ puberty juice isn’t baked into it somewhere, and Marco’s whores. But hey, beats spending a thousand dollars on a new one, right?”
Castor shuts his eyes, pretending he didn’t hear all that, and I laugh. “New couch on the list of potential gifts. Got it.”
I drag him to the area beside the couch, where I have one of those walking mats – some kind of hybrid between a treadmill and a hamster wheel. “This is the ‘gym.’”
He belly-laughs at that, and I smack his arm.
I point to a dresser in the opposite corner, where a fake orchid is tilted toward the window. “This is where I pretend I have fresh flowers that need sunlight. Let’s call it, my pretend garden.”
“Ah, beautiful,” he plays along.
“I knew you’d think so.” I drag him away from the living area and toward the kitchen. “This is where I reheat meals that the chefs at Bangos make me. And, sometimes, cook.” I rush to get a paper towel and clean a fresh splash of burger grease settling into my stove. “I’m very tidy, as you can see.”
“Just like I remember your room at your old place,” he says, and my face grows hot with embarrassment.
“Excuse me?” I say.
“Yeah, your door was open sometimes. I practically lived in that house for four years.”
Oh, don’t I know it.
“Whenever I snuck a peek, there were clothes everywhere and a bed half-made.”
My mouth hangs open. “Are you calling me a slob?”
He wipes a finger on the side of my sink and holds up some discolored grease. “Yep.” Before I can respond, he pulls out his burner phone and starts dialing.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling my cleaning lady.”
