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She can shoot me all the looks she wants. There is no way in hell she is touching this guy. I would bet my Rover that a bag of stale Cheetos isn’t the worst place that hand has been.
“And I’m Hayes. Her uh–”
Laney gives me a warning glance. I clear my throat and stand a little taller, keeping my other hand in my coat pocket. “I’m Hayes.”
Boyd gets the message loud and clear. Because even standing two steps ahead of me, he still doesn’t reach my height.
“Nice to meet you, Hayes. But the deposit quote I gave the little lady was for one; it’ll cost you more for two.”
Little lady? Oh shit, it’s about to be Boyd’s funeral. A quick peek at Laney reveals she’s just as pissed as I thought she’d be. Let’s hope it’s enough to make her want to tell this guy to kiss her ass.
I nod, and we follow him up to the third floor on creaking stairs, her hand locked firmly in mine.
“Little lady,” I whisper-shout.
“Don’t.” She warns.
“And a bigger deposit for two people? Is it one apartment? What the hell kind of shady back-alley math is that?”
“Well, I guess it’s a good thing that you’re not moving in with me.”
“No, but maybe you should just move in with me.” The words are out before I can stop myself. And I can’t take them back. I’m not even sure I want to.
“Now I know you’ve lost your mind. And what was all that Alpha-male BS back there?” She rolls her eyes and lowers her voice. “Did you want to piss on my leg too?”
I stop walking, my fingers tightening on hers, and pull her back to me. “Golden showers really aren’t my thing, Baby Becks.”
Boyd either has the ears of a cat, or we suck at whispering because he picks up on the conversation. “Shower? It works just fine. The hot water is tricky, though.”
The landlord unlocks the door, and we follow him inside, the smell of bleach hitting my nose at once. It smells like a crime scene.
Laney pulls her hand free and starts walking around the space.
It’s small. That’s not a problem. The living room has one window overlooking the alley, a radiator beneath it, and hardwood floors that have seen better decades. The kitchen is basically part of the living room, with three cabinets that don’t close, an old stove, and a refrigerator that hums loud enough to qualify as a roommate.
Laney turns in a slow circle. “I could work with this.”
Of course she could. She could make a cardboard box look cozy if you gave her enough books and a battery-operated lamp.
“As I said, for extra, it can come fully furnished,” Boyd says, and he’s completely serious.
I bite back a laugh because Boyd acts like this is a Pottery Barn-style walkup, when in reality he’s referring to a patio table with mismatched chairs, a broken futon, and a stained mattress.
I walk to the window.
Lock it.
Unlock it.
Lock it again.
The latch barely catches.
Fuck.
I pull out my phone.
Laney sees me.
