“Not at all. That’s why I’m here,” Ezra said brightly. “Mr. Reid was correct in sending me to you. You really do need someone like me around.”
Roman smiled again, looking a little bit dazed. Ezra took it as a good sign. He planned to be the best housekeeper Roman would ever employ.
3
The Uniform
Roman stirred to the scent of fresh coffee wafting into his bedroom. Lying in bed with the sun streaming in through the windows, it took him a moment to remember the impulsive decision he’d made just yesterday to bring on a roommate. Not a roommate but a housekeeper. A live-in housekeeper. A cute, peppy little live-in housekeeper. It had been so long since he’d shared his space with someone that he worried he might not be able to make it work. And yet, the idea of greeting the shy, sometimes startling young man filled Roman with a pleasant warmth as he scratched his navel and blinked away sleep.
Once out of bed, he pulled on sweats and a tank top, the latter of which he might have forgone if it hadn’t been for Ezra’s pointed question about whether he preferred to be shirtless; he didn’t want to make the young man uncomfortable in his first few days here.
Roman padded barefoot out to the kitchen, still squinting in the morning light, and stopped dead in his tracks a few feet away from the kitchen counter. Ezra’s back was turned, thankfully, so he couldn’t see Roman’s shocked expression at what the younger man was wearing, which was practically nothing—a child’s sized Saints’ jersey and black booty shorts that were so tight Roman could see the outline of both Ezra’s butt cheeks forming a perfect little peach. His ass wiggled as he plunged down on the French press and Roman had to clutch the kitchen counter for balance.
“Sir, I’m glad you’re up,” Ezra chirped happily when he turned and noticed Roman standing there. “Coffee’s almost ready.”
Roman reached absently for the bar chair and managed to sink into it without taking his eyes off of his sweet, innocent housekeeper and his incredibly scandalous clothing. “Ezra,” he said, hardly noticing the steaming mug of coffee the young man had set before him. “Where did you get that outfit?”
Ezra stalled and glanced down at his clothes self-consciously. He tugged at the hem of his shirt, which barely grazed his navel. “It’s my uniform, sir.”
“Your uniform?” Roman asked. A stripper’s uniform, maybe.
“Mr. Reid gave it to me. He said you’d like it because it’s your old team.”
Roman noticed the number, Jay’s own. His confusion morphed into irritation at what was surely his best friend fucking with him at Ezra’s expense. But more disturbingly, Ezra’s cheerful smile had vanished.
“You don’t like it,” Ezra said with a slight protuberance of his lower lip.
“No.” Roman raised both hands in a halting gesture. The last thing he wanted was for Ezra to feel embarrassed, and the truth was he liked the uniform a little too much. “I love it, Ezra. I really do, but Jay… he gave youhisnumber, not mine.”
“Oh.” Ezra’s head tilted like a songbird. “I hadn’t considered that.”
Roman nodded, thinking quickly on a solution. All of the jerseys he’d saved from his time on the field would fall off of Ezra’s slim frame. “We football players can be pretty… territorial. It’s fine for today, but I’m going to get you one that hasmynumber on it, and then you’ll really be part ofmyteam.”
“Okay,” Ezra said, the brightness returning to his voice. He wet a washcloth at the sink and went back to tidying up the counters. Roman sipped his coffee silently and watched his housekeeper hard at work, stretching across the expanse of granite to get at the backsplash, raising himself up onto his toes and causing the hem of his shorts to ride up even higher on his pale thighs. Roman sat at the counter until all of his coffee was gone.
“Would you like another cup, sir?” Ezra asked, noticing Roman’s prolonged presence. He lifted the pot, exposing the lower third of his smooth, hairless belly.
“No, I’m just going to sit here for a few more minutes,” Roman said tightly and willed his erection to go away. “When you’re done here, maybe you ought to start in the living room.”
“Good idea,” Ezra said and wiggled his way past him. Roman told himself not to look, but the shorts were so damn short, and he was justtoocute.
Jay was a dead man.
* * *
Roman was greetedby Jay’s hyena-like laughter when he entered into Flex later that day. They’d each made business investments toward the end of their football careers, Roman in a couple of restaurants since he loved food and feeding people, and Jay in a local chain of fitness centers because he figured he’d be there working out anyway.
After his encounter with Ezra, Roman had taken a cold shower, then given up and switched the temperature to warm, beating off quickly and efficiently while tryingnotto think about the young man kneeling on the floor of his living room and sorting through his clutter. After that, he’d said goodbye to Ezra and stopped by N’awlins, his beignet shop, to check in with the day manager before meeting Jay at the gym. Jay’s face was full of merriment when he met Roman at the free weights.
“You’re a fucking asshole,” Roman said by way of greeting.
“Am I though?” Jay asked quixotically.
“Yes, you are, and it wasn’t right to do that to me or to him.”
Jay licked his upper lip, still with a shit-eating grin on his face. “All I did was suggest that you might like the outfit, and you did.”
“I did not.”
