Page 39 of New Orleans Rush

His lips tugged to the side, into an almost smile. “Yes, Beatrice. I’ll have to use them in my acts. But there will be no betting of any kind.”

“At all?”

“None.”

“In eighteen days?”

He nodded, and an idea struck. She wanted that date more than she wanted a lifetime supply of Double Bubble, but fear of getting hurt simmered, threatening to reach a full boil. She needed to ensure Huxley was the good man he seemed, before dating and feelings complicated matters. Her track record proved such espionage was warranted. And espionage was best performed in close quarters.

“I will accept your date offer,” she said, “under one condition.”

Chin tipped up, he stalked closer. “I’m all ears.”

He was all sexy, two-toned eyes, broad chest and slim hips. Factors that could make this stipulation a challenge. She forged on. “I’d like to move in with you.”

He froze. “Move in with me?”

“Into your spare room. You mentioned it at that café and said I could crash there. As much as I like it here, the space has felt a bit…uncomfortable lately, and I have nowhere else to go. I’d pay you, of course. And it would only be until I find something else.” Until she sussed out if he was date worthy, and the uncomfortable part wasn’t a lie.

Living together would exacerbate their sexual tension, but she was still shaken by that text. The notion of sleeping in a cavernous theater, alone, had lost its appeal. A proper bed and room would be a luxury, too. As would the absence of morning construction workers stomping around.

“So just to get this right,” Huxley said, a smile spreading, “you’ll go on a date with me in eighteen days if we live together?”

She wasn’t sure why he was grinning so wide. She never wanted him to stop. “I will.”

He passed his hand over his mouth and shifted his weight. “Okay. But I have a stipulation of my own.”

“Will there be pimping involved?”

He chuckled, a deep rumbly sound she’d have liked to hear in stereo. “What’s with you and the pimping?”

“I saw a program once, on human trafficking. It left an impression.” As did the gangster movies and cop shows she enjoyed. For a beat, she contemplated telling Huxley about her father’s debt drama, but he had his own money issues, and involving others always made things worse. Case in point: her attempt at helping Franklyn Baker hadn’t done her any favors.

Huxley closed the distance between them and crouched in front of her crossed legs. He took her hands in his. “I assure you there will be no pimping, but if I take you on as a roommate, I’d like you to concede something, too.”

“I knew you were an even-steven sort.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Depends on the concession.”

“It’s two things, actually.”

“Now you’re just demanding.”

He sunk his thumb into the divot between her knuckles. “You have to set up your art in my living room so you can paint, and I won’t charge you rent. If you won’t let me pay you, at least let me do this.”

She’d never met such a generous man, willing to change his ways to take a woman on a date, refusing rent, encouraging Bea to paint in his place. On paper, he seemed wonderful. But she no longer trusted her instincts, and there was no better way to understand someone’s nature than in their natural habitat. The venue change might even alleviate her creative slump.

Her answer to him was easy, but she didn’t want to remove her hands from his just yet. “I might agree to your terms, but I forgot to ask some essential questions.”

“Such as?”

“What color are your walls?”

He took his time answering. “Robin’s-egg blue.”

“Do you stock ketchup or green lollipops?”