A raise would be really nice. Preferably one big enough that I won't have to rent out my spare bedroom. It's not that I don't want a roommate. I'm not opposed to other people, in theory, but have you seen the bad roommate subreddit? It's terrifying. I am not equipped to handle a roommate who poops in the shower.
Yes. I know. Not all roommates poop in the shower. They're not feral cats. For that matter, not even all feral cats poop in the shower. My point is, I've been enjoying being on my own since Ollie, and I don't want a roommate if I can avoid it.
He rubs his thumb up the arch of my foot, hitting some pressure point that seems to release all the tension in my shoulders, and I let out a groan.
His mouth quirks up in a little grin of superiority. As if he's proven something by being stupidly good at foot rubs.
“If you keep that up, I might just chain you to the couch and never let y-you leave.”
His gaze darkens, and his lips twist into that smug little smirk of his. “Chained to your couch? At least I'll die happy.”
Gah. That smirk does unspeakable things to my hormones. It always has. But I've known Keegan long enough to take his teasing banter with a grain of salt. He doesn't mean to blast me with his smolder, he just doesn't know how to turn down the intensity of his charm.
If the visual of him chained up and at my mercy is a little too vivid in my mind, then ... well, that's my own damn fault. Plus, I'm an expert at coyly sidestepping conversations and staying out of the smolder-blast-range. The key is pretending I didn't even hear the teasing innuendo.
A moment later, I open my eyes to see him looking down at my feet in his lap, concentrating on that as if it's the most important thing he's ever done.
He shifts my feet in his lap and keeps kneading.
“I don't think they appreciate you enough there,” Keegan mutters.
This has been the common refrain of our renewed friendship. During The Ollie Years, Keegan and I stayed in contact, but not enough for him to see the highs and lows of my job. Now that we're hanging out every week, there's a lot of under-the-breath muttering on his part.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” I pull my feet out of his lap. “You trust fund kids don't know what it's like on the mean streets of Austin. Long hours, under-earning. Always one paycheck away from needing to pick up a side hustle with DoorDash.”
He grabs one of my feet and holds my ankle, keeping me off balance until I look up at him. His gaze is dark again, but stormy this time. “You wouldn't dare.”
I chuckle. “What? Work for DoorDash? I was joking.”
He lets my foot go and blows out a breath. “Thank God. I'd never be able to sleep at night knowing you were out delivering food in the middle of the night.”
I kick his thigh gently. “You work at a bar. You don't sleep at night, anyway.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do. And thank you for caring, but I can take care of myself, thank you very much.”
“Oh, I'm well aware.” He slants me a look. “But if money's tight, I could always—”
I kick him again. Ever so slightly harder this time. “Don't finish that sentence. Money isn't tight,” I lie, swinging my feet to the ground. “The opposite, in fact. Money is loose. It's practically baggy.”
Keegan quirks an eyebrow in a display of overt skepticism.
“I promise. Besides, w-who am I to complain when the eye candy is so good?”
That skeptical eyebrow drops into a scowl. “What eye candy?”
Relieved that I successfully averted his attempts to dig into my finances, I waggle my eyebrows salaciously. “Haven't I mentioned how hot my boss is?”
The scowl deepens. “No. That hasn't come up.”
Amused by his reaction, I fluff the details. “Mr. Forester is” —I bring my fingers to my mouth to blow a dramatic chef's kiss— “Very tasty.”
“Did you develop some kind of Daddy fetish? Isn't he like sixty?”
I blink, then guffaw with laughter. “Um. No. You're thinking of the original Mr. Forester, the guy who hired me right out of college. Who was fantastic, but not at all a tasty snack.” It's a sign of how far Keegan and I drifted apart during the Ollie years that he's this out of the loop on my work life. And then I cringe, because this conversation suddenly seems weird and distasteful. “And he passed away two years ago. The tasty snack is Mr. Reid Forester, who took over as president of the company.”
Keegan makes a grumbly, dissatisfied noise. “So, this guy is your boss?”
