Page 13 of Rent a Bad Boy

“She’s a shy girl. She’s under the lavender bush.”

He finds Brad Pitt watching him from the top of the coop. “Okay. Now I get the joke,” Everett mutters with a smirk. “He’s not a handsome guy.”

“No. He’s really not.”

“He’s staring at me.”

“He stares at everybody. I guess that comes with being a rooster.” I bend down and scoop up Marjorie, who clucks once in protest but settles into my arms the way she always does. “Here. Hold her.”

“What?” I swear, you would think I just asked him to hold a bomb.

“Hold her. She’s calm. She won’t freak out,” I promise.

Before he can argue, I step forward and transfer the chicken into his arms. For a second, this two-hundred-and-forty-pound mass of muscle stands frozen in my backyard, holding a chicken like he’s afraid she will literally explode in his arms.

Animals have good instincts, and that includes chickens. After a second or two, she settles against his chest and blinks up at him. He looks down at her, frowning, like he’s not sure what to think.

“She likes you,” I tell him.

“And how would you know that?”

“Has she pecked you bloody?”

He snickers. “Okay. Good point.” Something in his shoulders loosens. He shifts her weight slightly, and she makes a low, contented sound. His eyebrows shoot up like he’s surprised.

When he tentatively strokes her feathers, I notice his knuckles. The first two are bruised. A little swollen, too. “What happened to your hand?”

He glances down at it. “Nothing.”

“That’s not nothing. That’s⁠—”

“I hit the heavy bag too hard. It happens sometimes.” Obviously, he’s finished with the conversation and with Marjorie, since he shifts her back toward me. I take her and don’t ask any more questions because there’s something in his voice telling me I’m not getting any more answers, at least not right now.

Marjorie waddles back toward the coop once I set her down. Brad Pitt watches Everett’s every move but leaves it at that. “I think you’ve been accepted,” I decide. That shouldn’t make me as happy as it does. I want to trust this guy. Maybe I need to, even. Knowing they accept him gives me a feeling of relief. Like maybe my instincts about him are right.

“You want something to drink?” I offer, because isn’t that what people say when they have a guest? Standing here is going to get weird fast. “We have water and juice. Probably some of Grandma’s wine, but it’s the kind that comes in a box. I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Water is fine.”

I lead him inside through the back door. At least the kitchen is clean, but that’s only because I’m the one who cleans it. I pull two glasses from the cabinet and fill them from the pitcher in the fridge. I hand him a glass, which he takes with a grunt and empties in a few deep gulps. Great. What now?

“Did you think about it?” I ask, because curiosity is basically killing me at this point. I think I’ve waited more than long enough to ask.

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s not a no.”

I’m about to try a different angle, maybe bring up Christine’s email from yesterday... when Grandma sweeps into the room.

She’s wearing her robe. Normally, that would be fine, except right now it’s hanging open over a silk nightgown that’s sheer enough to be practically see-through and cut lower than anyone her age—or any age—should be wearing in front of company. Or behind company. Or near company at all.

“Don’t mind me,” she chirps as she reaches past Everett for the box of wine on the counter. That means giving him a full and unrestricted view of things I refuse to think about. “I’m just grabbing a little something to help me relax.”

I don’t think about it. I don’t plan it. My grandmother’s robe is open, and her boobs are about to plop out on the counter like she’s serving them for dinner, and Everett is standing three feet from her, and my survival instincts kick in before my brain catches up. I grab his hand and pull him out of the kitchen, down the short hallway, and into my bedroom before shoving the door closed behind us.

And now I realize what I just did.