“An asset?” I ask, blinking up at him.
“Of course. You’ve definitely upped the house’s value by adding decor and giving this boring room a makeover. Not to mention you’re increasing the number of household members by 50 percent. Plus, you’re good for morale,” he teases with a wink.
“Morale, huh?”
“Yes. Your contribution to thevibeis worth at least a few hundred bucks.”
“Right.” I sigh, wrapping a hand around my grumbling stomach. Bo’s eyes follow my hand’s path and hold there, eyeing my belly with warm affection.
“Look, I know we don’t really know each other that well yet, and you don’t have reason to trust me with this, but I promise—thisisfair. I can go over it with you some more, on my computer maybe, but regardless, this is as much money from you as I’m comfortable accepting. I’m very good at my job and typically honourable, but Ididconsider fudging the numbers when I saw your amount. I’d like to make things as easy as I can for you, Win. If I had it my way, you’d quit your job, put your feet up, and relax for the next few months.”
“You want a kept woman,” I tease.
“I certainly want to keep you.” He blanches as soon as the words leave his mouth. “I mean, I want to keep you happy. Here and happy and—”
“Okay,” I interrupt. “Fine. I agree with your arrangement, but if anything changes… if atanypoint you start resenting me or—”
“That’s impossible.”
“All right, but… if.”
His shoulders fall on a long exhale. “Thank you.”
“I don’t know why you’re thankingme. I’m rich now. I have an ice machine and an extra thousand bucks a month to play with.”
He laughs, his face pointed up at the ceiling. “Okay, big spender, now that we got that sorted… soup?” He stands, offering me his hand to follow.
I place my smaller hand in his anddon’tmiss how his eyes crease on either side when he wraps his full hand around it, covering it completely.
Not a chef, my ass. When I’m done with my third helping of Bo’s butternut squash soup—that he made fromscratch,I might add—I begin cleaning up.
I know it sounds ridiculous, because there is a dishwasher, but I decided to do the dishes by hand. I think part of me feels like it’s only right to do it the old-fashioned way, considering Bo just made soup like a pioneer woman.
Halfway through washing our dishes, a scratchy guitar solo starts playing in the adjoining room, the music slowly being turned up.
“This okay?” Bo says, popping his head around the corner.
“Yeah!” I shout over the music, nodding along. “Who is this?”
“Rush—they were one of my mom’s favourite bands.”
“Your mom had good taste,” I say, smiling over my shoulder as I scrub my soup bowl clean.
Bo’s eyes hold on my hands with one raised, quizzical brow, but he doesn’t say anything. And I appreciate that. I despise being micromanaged. Even if what I’m doingisnonsensical. Little doses of control are what I need right now.
I put the bowl onto the drying rack and grab a glass from the counter. I smile to myself as I shove my little hand into the water glass with a sponge. It’s basically the best feature of having an underdeveloped hand. If it had an infomercial, it’d say I have a built-in scrubbing brush. Or, if I was a toy, it would say I’m karate-chop ready at all times.
“When you’re finished up, I thought maybe we could do one of those question cards Sarah got us,” Bo says, scratching the back of his neck. “You know, if you’re not too tired.”
“Sure!” I chime, smiling over my shoulder.
We’re killing this, I think to myself. Day one, and we’ve already communicated the shit out of our arrangement, opened up about our exes, and established a routine. I can’t help but smile as I keep cleaning, humming along to the music until I’m finished up.
Drying off my hands, I take a quick detour to my room to throw on some sweatpants. My body hasn’t changed all that much so far, but I certainly notice how tight my jeans have started to feel in the evenings.
Once cosy, I find Bo in the living room, sitting pensively with a sudoku puzzle book in hand. The turntable paused itself once the needle reached the end of the record, leaving nothing but a quiet electrical hum of the speakers.
“Did you want me to turn the record over?” I ask, approaching the end of the couch.
