When he’s finally done with his display of masculine perfection, his eyes wander around the loft. “You redecorated.”
“Uh, yeah.” I swipe my bangs off my forehead and fidget with my coffee mug as he keeps scrutinizing the new décor. His eyes are a soft brown veiled with long thick lashes the same color as his hair. They’re so different from Trista’s electric blue but still hold the same underlying kindness, which I’ve so desperately missed since she left. “Tris was okay with the basic stuff you guys had; I guess this was always just a pit stop before she went back to Brian.”
“And it’s more than that for you?” He asks, and I don’t miss the flash of something I can only call pain that crosses his features, even as he keeps looking around in interest.
I assume he’s thinking about that year his life spun out of control, forcing Trista and the rest of his family to stop their own lives and take care of him. Before Trista left, when she was still photographing for Garderobe and was the only real friend I had, she confided in me how hard watching Michael on the road to self-destruction was for her.
The effect was so disastrous she almost lost the love of her life. It took them eight years to find their way back to each other, and I suspect Michael is guilt-ridden over the derailing of his little sister’s life.
Michael’s tawny stare turns to me, and my cheeks grow even warmer, because damn if his intense gaze isn’t about the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, and my body is reacting accordingly.
My eyes cast down to the floor, fingers grazing my forehead as they swipe my bangs aside. “I don’t really have anywhere else to go,” I reluctantly admit, not happy about sharing with this successful, gorgeous man how stupid and gullible I was. Because, for some reason I can’t put my finger on, what Michael Edwards thinks of me matters.
Turning toward the cupboard, I busy myself with making Michael coffee so I won’t have to keep dealing with his penetrating gaze inspecting me, seeing my vulnerability. “How do you take it?”
“Dash of creamer, no sugar.”
“What is it with you Edwardses and bitter coffee?” I scrunch my nose disapprovingly as I pour him a cup and pull out the creamer.
Michael lets out a soft chuckle, leaning a hip against the counter in casual comfort as if nothing about this situation phases him. He’s the sort of man who carries enough confidence to feel comfortable in any space, whether it belongs to him or not.
Only, this one falls under the former, doesn’t it, Lore?
“And let me guess. You take it with three sugar cubes and either two creamers or half-and-half on the milk and water?” And then he does it—picks up my favorite mug, the one with the Unipug wishing you a magiwoof morning—and takes a sip.
It takes a few seconds for the shock to wear off. “Hey!”
Michael’s face is twisted in disgust. “Dear lord!”
I stomp to him and snatch the cup from his hand. “That was mine!”
“What? You can still drink it; I won’t give you cooties.”
“I will not! I don’t even know you.” I spill what’s left of my mostly untouched coffee to Michael’s bouts of laughter and take what I had initially planned to give him for myself. I make sure he sees I’m doing it purely out of spite and that he can get his own damn coffee if he wants because no one, and I meanno one, touches my damn Unipug mug.
Michael takes the hint, making a big show of sighing and dragging himself to the cabinet. And either the kitchen is too narrow, or he’s too large because I can feel the body warmth rolling off him, causing my pulse to race.
“You smell minty,” I observe, realizing how much of a weirdo it makes me sound.
“It’s my shampoo. Makes me feel fresh,” he says from behind my back, and when he moves to take the coffee pot, his hand brushes over mine in the lightest of touches. It’s enough to send a pleasant current up my arm, and Michael’s momentary pause makes me wonder if he felt it too.
He clears his throat before grabbing the pot and pouring himself a mug. “I like what you did with the place, by the way. It’s very homey.”
I nod, focusing on the mechanic act of adding creamer to my new brew before I dare answer, lest he hears the tremble that smallest of touches caused. “I didn’t know when I was leaving, and I figured giving the place some warmth was the least I could do in exchange for staying here for free.” I freeze mid-stirring and turn to Michael so quickly coffee slushes over the rim of my mug. “I’ve been putting some money aside every month to pay at least part of the rent back to Trista. I didn’t intend to mooch off her forever.”
“Stop, it’s fine,” Michael dismisses me, grabbing a paper towel and crouching low on the floor to wipe my spilled beverage without a second thought, the strong muscles of his calves bulging at the squat, and damn it, the man has nice, solid legs. “This place is mostly empty anyway. It’s not as if Trista was actually paying rent, and even before, we never intended this to be a real estate investment. You aren’t costing us money, so as long as you pay utilities, you’re welcome to stay.”
“But you need the loft for work,” I try to argue. “I can’t force you to live in a hotel for…for… How long are you here for, anyway?”
“Eight weeks,” Michael answers with a cringe and offers an apologetic grimace, making it clear the idea of spending that time in a hotel appeals to him about as much as it does to me. I gawk at him, terror climbing up my spine at the realization that eight weeks in a hotel will wipe out everything I’ve managed to put aside since the breakup with Jason, and then some.
It must be written all over my face because Michael’s jaw hardens with resolve, and he takes a step closer, just shy of invading my personal space. “Carrot Top Records is one of the most successful indie record companies in the country; we can afford to pay for a hotel for a few weeks.”
“I will not let you spend thousands of dollars so I can sit around your million-dollar loft like some parasite!” I stop short of stomping my foot, angrier at myself than at Michael. If I weren’t so blind and trusting, if I hadn’t put myself in a situation where someone else controlled all my finances, wiped them clean, inheritance and life savings included, I wouldn’t be here now, having to choose between freeloading and bankruptcy.
“Nowhere close to a million dollars.” Michael shakes his head with a smirk, sipping on his coffee.
“That is not the damn point,” I huff and follow suit, finally getting some caffeine in me though it does nothing to soothe my rising sense of overwhelm. I try not to get angry at him. This predicament I’ve gotten myself into isn’t his fault, and all things considered, he’s actually being extremely kind and understanding. But the self-loathing, the sense of shame at my own gullibility, they stir inside me with a painful reminder of the person I’m trying not to become again.