Page 16 of Tiger Lilies and Tight Ends

His lip pops free. “Number four. Don’t be messy. I know some people in the world can’t help it. But try. I don’t like clutter. As you can see, I keep my house pretty simple, organized, and clean. I firmly agree with all those articles out there that talk about more productivity, less anxiety, success, et cetera when it comes to a clean, uncluttered space. It makes me feel calm and good.”

So basically, he’s saying not to leave any of his stuff lying around. The less it feels like I’m here, the better. I can do that. I have been doing that. Other than my room, if I used anything in the kitchen, I washed it and put it back immediately.

“I get it. Feng shui and all that. Don’t worry, I don’t like clutter either,” I tell him, and he nods. The type A in me can’t handle chaos. I need order.

Looking back at the list, he runs his thumb over the paper before he refolds it, shoves it in his pocket, and then looks at me.

“And last, no flowers.”

What?

“No flowers?” I’m so confused. Who doesn’t like flowers?

“Allergies. I know it’s dumb. Grass allergies too, but it is what it is.” He runs his hand over his head like him making this statement somehow makes him uncomfortable or vulnerable. Who am I kidding, this whole conversation is probably making him uncomfortable.

“Grass? You literally play all day, every day on grass.”

“I know, but turf grass doesn’t seem to bother me, and most professional fields these days are made of a grass alternative. But things are always blooming in Florida, lawns are mowed weekly, and being outside is a little rough for me. That’s part of the reason I like being on the water so much.”

“What happens if you’re around flowers? Aren’t they in every hotel you stay at? Restaurants?”

“As long as they aren’t super fragrant, I do okay. It’s not like I’m wandering around sticking my face in every arrangement or bouquet I pass and sniffing them. But typical allergy things like itchy eyes, red eyes, sneezing, and runny nose. A grown man dealing with a sneezing fit around my teammates? No, thanks. Can you imagine the shit they would give me?” He crosses his arms over his chest. Clearly, he doesn’t like the thought of his teammates giving him a hard time, as he’s closing up right in front of me.

But I smile because I do know.

“Okay, so no guests, no pictures, no staying up past eight, no ground beef, no clutter, and no flowers.”

He nods.

“Deal. For the record, I would agree to any of your rules, no matter what. I’m just grateful you’re letting me stay.”

His gaze wanders over my face, and then travels down to my shoulders and the rest of me that is visible. He’s thinking something, and I suddenly wish more than anything I were a mind reader. Eventually, his eyes return to mine.

“I think we’ll be all right, then. As long as this arrangement works for both of us, you can stay for as long as you want. But if it’s not, then I’ll help you with something else. You finding everything you need so far?”

I send out a silent commitment into the universe. I promise to be the perfect houseguest.

“Yes. Thanks for asking.”

“Have you left the house yet?”

I look down at my plate. “No.”

“Why not?” he asks, moving his hands and placing them on the counter next to his hips. This pulls his shirt tight across his chest and shoulders, and I remind myself to breathe.

“I’m not ready to.”

“What does that mean?” he asks, confused.

“I told you, you’re not the only one who likes a private life.”

There are already comments circling around on the internet about Dean and me. He’s been photographed out and about, like he always is, and questions are emerging because I’m not in any of them. I swear these superfans and obsessed girls who have podcasts, all they care about are other people's lives and disrupting them. All of it is clickbait for attention. Like why are you thinking about us? Why are you talking about me? They don’t know me, it’s weird, and I’d rather just stay home and be me without worrying about any of it.

Tyler’s watching me, and although I didn’t turn into a mind reader, his expression that borders on pity is giving him away, and I hate it. With this, I decide we need a subject change.

I sit up straight. “So should we shake on it?”

“Shake on what?”