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He cocks his eyebrow and folds his arms over his chest. "Kara."
"Yeah?"
"Your top button is undone." He smirks.
I look at my blouse. Dammit. He's right. I fix the button but it won't stay done.
Drew laughs. "I like it better that way."
I will not blush. I will not blush. Dammit, I will not blush! I clear my throat. "How much more than fifty percent are we talking?"
"It's not a lot of money to me." He takes a step toward me and brushes a stray hair behind my ear. "You'd be doing me a favor."
"You're so full of shit."
He grabs my wrist and moves toward the exit. "I'm going to get my way."
"You always do."
* * *
No way in hell.
This is not an apartment for a college student. The penthouse of a luxury condo is more appropriate for a movie star than a finance and literature double major.
This place must be two thousand square feet. Every wall is glass. The kitchen is stainless steel with quartz countertops. The balcony stretches on forever.
Drew looks at me. "There's a pool on the roof."
"No," I say.
"Should I prove it?"
"I can't live here. The rent probably costs more than my car."
"Your car is ancient."
I fold my arms.
Drew walks across the long living room. He opens a sliding door and steps onto the balcony. Even on this floor, it's loud. Wilshire is jammed and there's enough honking to prove it. The smell of gasoline and exhaust drifts into the room. Oh, Los Angeles, you really have a unique charm.
The wind whips Drew's hair and t-shirt. He turns and motions come here.
I stay put. "This place is not us."
"What's us?"
"Don't you want to live in Hollywood?" I ask.
"So I can hit the clubs every night with
Tom? No." His eyes find mine. "I want to live with you."
He steps inside, closing the door behind him. Instantly, the room is quiet. It's too quiet, actually. I can hear my racing heartbeat.
I clear my throat. "I hate Westwood."
"It's half a mile from UCLA."
