Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
“Well, I’m excited to see it,” I say, playing the Super Roomie role perfectly, since he’s clearly a Super Landlord. Which brings me to another point—something I should have asked Christian. “What is the rent?”
Wesley scoffs.
I wait for his answer.
But he’s silent.
“Seriously? What is it?” I ask again, hoping it’s affordable. I’m sure it is—that was the point of me asking Christian for help. Still, I want to know.
“Josie, I’m not charging you rent.”
“I can pay. I have a job. It’s only for three months, but still, I have one. How about I pay whatever I was going to pay for the short-term rental?”
He shoots me a quick look before he changes lanes. “How about you don’t?”
“Wesley,” I plead. This man is so generous. But I can’t keep taking from him. “I want to pay. Something.”
“Josie,” he says, his voice as stern as it was when he told me to bend over the bed. “I own my home. Outright. I only want you to be a guest.”
Now is clearly not the time to argue with this bossy and generous man—and that’s a lethal combo. Lethal to my panties. “I’ll find a way,” I say, and maybe I can plant some seeds for the next time this comes up. “I can cook, I can make coffee, I can water plants, I can help…and I can shelve books according to the Dewey Decimal System.”
“How about you do your own dishes and keep things neat, and we’ll call it good?”
I can tell that’s as far as I’m getting, so I drop the topic, saying, “I won’t miss the spring on Maeve’s couch.”
He tosses me a look as he slows at the lights on Fillmore. “The one that was going to stab you in the ass?”
I groan privately. I told him about the evil spring the night we slept together. Way to move on, Josie. “Yes. That one. And it definitely attacked me. I have the bruise on my butt to prove it,” I say, and that probably doesn’t help either—all this butt talk. I quickly pivot. “So, if you don’t have black sheets, are they…Sea Dogs colors?”
“They’re navy.”
“That’s in the same family as Sea Dogs colors,” I point out as he drives.
“The Sea Dogs color is royal blue,” he says.
Okaaaay. This isn’t awkward at all, discussing the precise hue of his team colors instead of the attack spring. “Right. Of course,” I say, then hunt around for safe topics. Not hockey. Not Sea Dogs. Not the other night. What do roomies discuss? House stuff. “So you have a room under the stairs? Is it like a cupboard?”
He shakes his head. “No. It’s a room. It sort of extends past the staircase. It even has a window. And a nook.”
My mouth waters. “A reading nook?”
“I guess you could use it for that.”
“What else would someone use it for?”
He shrugs as he drives past shops I’ll want to check out soon, like An Open Book and Bling and Baubles. “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t use it. Honestly, no one has even stayed there since I moved in. Guess it’s a virgin room.”
That doesn’t make me think of sex either.
He flicks the turn signal and turns onto Jackson Street, full of modern homes with Scandinavian designs, square-like structures in cool shades of gray, with metal and wood accents that give them a modern, minimalist feel. Every yard is well-kept, every porch is pristine, and every home screams money.
I hate that Christian was right, but this area is the opposite of the one the short-term rental was in. Wesley pulls into a tiny driveway, then hits a button for a sleek garage. Once inside, I step out of the car into a neat, clean space. Is Wesley neat and organized? I’m dying to know simply because I want to know him.
But I shouldn’t want to know him. He’s just a roommate—that’s all. He pops the trunk, then grabs the suitcase from the trunk before I can. I snag the cactus from the floor of the backseat as he punches the code into the door and swings it open.
“After you.” He flicks on a switch. Everything is light and airy. Clean and quiet.
We head up a short flight of stairs to the main floor, where he sets my bag down. “Let me show you around.”
I try not to gawk. Really I do. I’ve seen nice homes before. My brother has a nice place. But Christian’s five years older and he’s always felt twenty years my senior. Wesley feels like my generation, and it’s strange for someone my age to have a place this upscale.
“How old are you?” I ask, instantly wishing I could take it back. I’ve been trained not to ask people’s ages. You’re not supposed to do it at work. I shouldn’t do it with Wesley. Even though I could find all his info online since he’s a pro athlete.