“I don’t need your charity,” Xavier finally spoke, his voice hard.
“It’s not charity,” June said. “My boss suggested it, not me. Our engineering team follows your channels. You’re the biggest local influencers by far now. They were thrilled when they found out I knew you.”
Xavier scoffed, but I could see the uncertainty in his eyes.
“I won’t pressure you, it’s your channel,” June said, setting a form down on the workbench. “You decide what to feature. But it’s a legitimate opportunity. Think about it.” She glanced around the barndominium one more time, her expression soft. “This place is cool. It’s quite homey. Anyway, I should go,” she said, stepping toward the door. “You guys can discuss the offer and let me know.”
And then she was gone, the door closing behind her, leaving nothing but the scent of her shampoo and the form on the workbench.
I watched Xavier’s face from the corner of my eye, saw the muscle twitching in his jaw as he fought some internal battle I could only guess at. His pride versus our bank account. His fear of hope versus the chance to do what he loved. After all these years together, I couldn’t always read what was happening behind his mask of indifference.
“Junie deserves better than the way you treated her. I’m of half a mind to pull you over my lap and spank some sense into you.”
That startled him out of his funk, and he blinked up at me. “Sorry.” He shifted, then adjusted his jeans with a discreet tug.
“Would you like that?” I asked. “My hands on your bare ass, making it sting?”
“Milo,” he huffed. “Save the daddy stuff for when June is with us.”
I sighed, letting him stew in his thoughts. Half of me wanted him to realize he was being an idiot. The other half wanted him to crawl into my lap, offer his ass to me, then realize he was being an idiot.
“She called the barndominium homey,” he said, and I glanced over to find him smiling.
I laughed. “She loves engines and mechanical things. It’d be like June to find a workshop comforting.”
He nodded and looked down at his hands. His voice was quieter when he spoke. “Milo, I don’t want charity. From her or her fancy tech company.”
“It’s not charity, you idiot. This company is spending billions on this project and it’s headed in a bad direction. They need ridersto get it back on track and squash the rumors. We’re a good fit and we’re local, so we’re a natural choice.”
Xavier snorted, but I had his attention.
“And you don’t need to worry about your job,” I continued, feeling a surge of confidence, “I’ll take care of you.” “You don’t have to always take care of me, Milo,” he whispered. “I don’t, but I enjoy it so I will. We’re not too far from making enough to pay the rent with our videos. You’ll have to work your ass off, and help out instead of pouting, but it’s better than cooking.”
That got him. His head snapped up, eyes narrowed in disbelief. “What?”
“The channel, X. It’s exploding. And you, Helmet Daddy, are the star.”
“If only they knew you were Daddy,” he whispered. Then his cheeks went pink, and his eyes darted to me. “How could we make enough to pay rent?”
“Those bookstore videos led people back through our content. The maintenance tutorials, and the rides we’ve filmed over the last year are pulling in serious views. We just need to put in the work now.”
“Really?” His voice was quiet, skeptical. “From videos of us being idiots on motorcycles?”
“Yep. And this testing gig,” I pressed, warming to my argument, “could build our reputation with other companies. It could mean you never go back to the diner. It could mean quitting my shitty job at the parts shop.”
I hadn’t told him how much I hated that job—how the hours dragged, how my boss micromanaged every interaction, how I worried that one late shipment or one bad customer interaction could mean we wouldn’t make rent. But I could see in his eyes that he knew.
“How do we know it’s not charity?”
“Because a successful person would never call this charity. They’d call it an opportunity. It’s all in the mindset, in the way we twist things in our heads. And it’s time we start thinking like successful people, X.”
He huffed, running a hand through his dark hair. “Fine.”
“Fine?” I echoed, surprised by how quickly he’d given in.
“Fine,” he repeated. “We’ll do it. But if they try to make us look like idiots or if they want us to lie about their bike, we walk. Deal?”
I grinned, relief flooding through me. “Deal.”
