Excuse me?
“If I recall correctly, you offered to cover the rest of the payments.”
“Yeah,” he says with a snort. He’s getting more confident now. “Because I was worried you’d beat me up or something if I didn’t.”
The look on his face is familiar—tired, weary, like dealing with me is exhausting. Like I’m higher maintenance than he ever wanted or could deal with. I try not to let that humiliation surge, but it’s getting more difficult to tamp down. In fact, if anything, it bubbles up faster than it might normally. Because an ex-boyfriend should never be able to make me feel like this, and it’s embarrassing that he can—in front of Roman, no less?—
No,I tell myself quickly when this thought pops up. Then, with more emphasis, I repeat it:NO.
Roman’s presence doesn’t change anything. Whether he’s here to witness my humiliation or not, it doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t care what he thinks.
And I don’t—I really don’t. It’s just that no one likes having their nose rubbed in their weakness.
But Tyler is grabbing the back of my head and shoving my face into the dirt.
“I had other plans for my money,” I say quietly. “If you ever cared about me at all, please pay me back half of the balance that was still left.”
He doesn’t meet my eye at this, probably because he knows he cared about me. He said he loved me.
Lies, obviously. Or maybe just conditional love.
“We should go,” I say, standing up. “We’ll see ourselves out. I’ll be in touch.”
I don’t wait for him to speak. I just listen to the click of my heels on the floor as we make our way back to the front door. When we reach the entrance, I stretch out my hand for the handle, but Roman stops me with a simple touch—no more than several fingers brushing the back of my hand.
He makes atsksound and wrinkles his nose. “No need to dirty yourself,” he murmurs, nudging me out of the way. Then he grasps the door handle and opens it himself, swinging it wide and nodding as though waiting for me to go first.
Something strange stirs in my chest as I blink at him, my mind stilled by surprise. But he just stands there, so I walk past him and slip out of the house; a second later he follows, closing the door firmly.
Neither of us speak on the way back to the car, which gives me time to calm my pulse and my residual anger. When we’ve gotten in and buckled up, he turns to me.
“Where to?” he says. “Your house or mine? I have a spare bedroom with grimy windows, a fine layer of dust, and a bucket of cleaning sprays.”
Again that strange feeling tries to jump inside. I kick it down—with prejudice. “Will I be paid?”
He drums his fingers against the steering wheel and shrugs. “I don’t see why not.”
“Are you sure? I’m not asking too much?” The words are sour as they tumble out. “I’m not too demanding? Too much to put up with?” I clench my jaw and smooth my hands down my skirt. “Or are you just agreeing because you’re worried I’ll beat you up?” Tyler’s words have thorns as I regurgitate them.
“I’d love to see you try,” Roman says, except he doesn’t sound threatening or contemptuous at all; if anything, his slight smile seems to say that he really would love to see me try. “I enjoy wrestling with beautiful women.”
I wrinkle my nose, and his smile stretches into a dimpled grin.
“But I’ll remind you once again…” He trails off now as his expression grows more serious. “Trust me to know how much I can and can’t handle, please. Take me at my word.” His gaze darts over my face. “And don’t give so much weight to the complaints of boys who think they’re men.” He shrugs and looks back out the windshield. “If he thinks you’re too much to hold, then you need someone stronger. That’s all.”
I have words, but there are too many of them, and they’re too jumbled, too stuck in my throat.
“So,” he goes on. “If you’re going to work at my house, elbow deep in dirt and grime and dust, inhaling chemicals, should you or should you not be paid?”
Relief trickles through me at the subtle change in tone, the lightness that stops me from sinking into unwanted emotions.
“I should be paid,” I say briskly, nodding. “But you’re going to be spending a lot of money on me by the time your house is done.”
He looks at me with a wicked glint in his eyes, and I hold up a finger before he can speak.
“Don’t,” I say severely. “Don’t say it.”
I receive another easy shrug, but his expression doesn’t fade; if anything, more laughter enters his eyes.
