“Because I don’t want you to leave the loft.” I turn to look at my handiwork. Not bad for a guy who can barely assemble an Ikea chair. “And I didn’t want to pay for someone else to do it. After what you said about your ex trying to control you through money, I wanted you to know I was doing this because I care about your wellbeing.”
“Why would you care about my wellbeing?” Lauren frowns. “You don’t know me.”
“No, but I talked to Trista this morning before going to my meeting, and she told me about everything you did for her.” I take a deep breath, debating how to phrase this in a way that would make Lauren feel the least uncomfortable and exposed. “Look, how we grew up, this is just how it works. You’re like a sister to my sister, so that makes you my family as well, and we look out for our own.”
The silence stretches out as I wait for Lauren to react.
“I, um…” She looks away, inhaling a shaky breath as she pushes those silky strands of sunshine aside in a gesture that makes me want to pull her into a hug, and despite her best efforts, the pain radiates off her in waves. “It’s been a while since anyone’s considered me family.”
“In that case, my condolences that after all this time, you ended up stuck with me.” Lauren’s brows shoot up, and her eyes grow wide, then she starts laughing, shaking her head and covering her mouth with her palm. Joyful pride swells in my chest for being able to do that. Not just because she needed the laugh, but because she has the best kind of laughter, the sort that makes everything light up.
When she calms down, she looks back at me with shining eyes and a broad smile. “Could be worse; at least you wear plaster well.” She takes a step forward and faces the newly installed wall with a resigned sigh. “Thank you. It isn’t pretty, but it’ll get the job done.”
“You’re welcome.” I’m relieved that I managed to convince her to drop the idea of leaving the loft, but, just for good measure and to assure she knows this has nothing to do with money, I turn to her with the face I usually save for my most difficult artists, what my twin brother mockingly refers to as the only business-adjacent expression I have. “You owe me forty bucks.”
Lauren turns to me, her eyes drawn to the white paint on my torso again, and I feel a blush creep up my neck, thinking how much of an incompetent spaz I must seem if this is how painting a damn wall leaves me looking. She shakes her head then, clears her throat and flashes me an embarrassed smile. “Can I convert the cash refund to dinner and beer?”
“Sure. I’m starving.” I’m not used to feeling uncomfortable, especially not around women. In my defense, though, I’m usually not covered in paint. Whipped cream or chocolate syrup, sure, but never paint.
“Yeah, me too.” Lauren averts her gaze and bites her bottom lip as if to suppress a laugh. “You should clean up, though.”
“Hey, now I can without being afraid you’ll sneak a peek!”
“As if.” Lauren snorts and rolls her eyes, then shakes her head and rolls her eyes again. If it weren’t so obviously over the top and accompanied by a pinkish hue spreading over her cheeks, I would have been offended.
“Well, I installed a lock just in case.” I wink at her as I shut the door behind me, and the last thing I see are her cheeks flare an even darker shade of pink.
She likes what she sees, which is fine because so do I. But looking is all we get to do, and I suspect Lauren has enough self-preservation instincts to know that sleeping with me could result in her having to leave, which she can’t afford.
Yeah, Tris told me more than just what Lauren did for her. She told me what her ex had done, how he had convinced her put all her life savings, everything she was going to use to launch her business, everything her parents and grandparents left her when they died, into a joint savings account. He used the fact that Lauren was young and had no one to look out for her. The so-called joint account? He opened it in his name only, citing some bullshit tax benefits as the reason. And then when she finally dumped the asshole, he got to keep everything because he had an entire giant law firm behind him, and she couldn’t even afford a coffee.
If her panicked look this morning wasn’t enough to ensure I would never agree to her leaving, what I learned afterward pretty much sealed the deal. This loft was her home for as long as she needed it. She needs to feel secure about that, know there are no strings attached to that offer. And that means Lauren is off-limits.
Shutting off the water, I think about the other part of the conversation, where I wondered why Trista hadn’t asked for our help with money, legal fees, anything. She told me Lauren had turned down assistance from Phoebe, a brilliant lawyer by her own right, citing the need to just move on from this chapter of her life. And when money came up, she flat out refused to listen.
That last part I get, but her unwillingness to let Phoebe take her on as a pro-bono client? Let’s just say I recognize a person with no fight left in them. Whatever Jackass Jason had done to her, it was more profound than the cash. He crushed her self-esteem, and I won’t be the man to do that to her a second time.
Wrapping a towel around my waist, I realize I’ll have to climb down to the study like this, practically naked and dripping wet, because it didn’t occur to me to bring clothes so I could get dressed up here, or at least have a bathrobe on hand so I can pass as somewhat decent.
Note to self—stock up on bathrobes.
With a silent groan, I slowly make my way to what will be my room for the next few weeks.
“How do you feel about fish and chips?” Lauren asks with her back to me when I reach the lower level. She’s at the sink, washing the few items in it with what I assume is an excuse not to look at me in my less than modest state.
Good, so we’re on the same page.
“I’m a fan,” I call over my shoulder, hurrying into the study before she runs out of dishes and excuses.
Okay, so this might take more getting used to than I thought.
* * *
Lauren
Popping another shrimp popcorn into my mouth, I wonder what to say next.
Part of me wishes this were one of those comfortable silence moments, though it’s anything but. Partially because walking around with drenched panties should be the Urban Dictionary definition of uncomfortable, but mostly due to this awkward situation where both Michael and I may be in way over our heads.