“Yeah, I hear that all the time.”
I start the car, wanting to ask him so much more. Where it started, is it linked to his family, how he can perform when he so clearly struggles on the day to day? It’s eating at me to hold back all of the questions, but he’s little more than a casual acquaintance at this point and just because I helped him out this one time, it doesn’t give me access to every part of his life.
Christian directs me to George Park District, an area of Seattle that’s known for being artsy and alternative, and is surrounded on three sides by the University District, Georgetown, where all the tech-people are, and Maple Park, which is known for being a snobby and wealthy area. It’s also, unfortunately, where I live.
Got to keep up those appearances.
But when we pull up out the front of a beautiful Victorian, I’m impressed. My modern, cold apartment has nothing on this. It’s on a large lot surrounded by enormous trees and gardens, in a way that looks purposely unkept. The entire street has similar residences, with centuries-old oak trees lining the road, and a feeling of organized chaos all around.
“This is it?” I ask, leaning forward for a better look.
“Yep, this is Bertha.”
“Bertha?”
Christian shoves a hand through his hair. “The owners have a plaque next to the door that says Big-Boned Bertha and we left it up. Our neighbor calls us Bertha’s boys.”
“Cute.” I eye the enormous house. “And after all that talk of not being able to afford Seattle prices.”
“With my mountain of debt, I can’t.” He laughs, rubbing his bicep. “There are six of us, though, and the owners apparently have a few houses that they rent out cheaper to people like us.”
“Like you?” I’m expecting it to be related to being gay and disowned when he surprises me.
“Starving artists.”
I let my gaze slowly travel over that gorgeous body. “Doesn’t look to me like you’re starving.”
Then he completely surprises me by leaning over the console, mouth so close his breath puffs against my lips, and says, “Why don’t you come upstairs and find out?”
Chapter 8
Christian
After how epically I screwed up tonight, I’m going to go ahead and assume there’s no way it can get worse. And if it does, well, Émile can’t say he wasn’t warned. The cake down the front of me is exhibit A.
I fling my jacket over my shoulder then reach out and take his hand as we make our way down the long front path.
“Just a heads-up, my roommates kinda overstep boundaries sometimes.” All the time, more like it. “Figured I’d apologize in advance.”
“They’re not going to walk in on us, umm,inspectingyour body, are they?”
“I wish I could tell you no.”
Émile lets out a quick laugh. “Somehow my excitement over meeting them has dimmed. Just a touch.”
“Yeah, about meeting them. It’s in our best interests to make sure thatdoesn’thappen.”
“Why?”
“Because the second they see you, there’ll be a million and one questions and we’ll never get away.”
His warm hand tightens around mine. “In that case, should we throw open the front door and make a run for it?”
My feet pull to a stop in front of the stairs and I turn to him. “You’d do that?”
“Christian.” His lips quirk as he steps closer. “You’re underestimating how desperately I want you out of these clothes, love.”
It’s dark with all the tree coverage around us, but someone is home because golden light is spilling out of the front living room and setting Émile’s blond hair alight. I swallow roughly, gaze skimming his clean-shaven face, the tilt to his lips that always seems to be there, like he’s holding on to a laugh. “Yeah. I’m kinda desperate for the same thing.”