Page 103 of Employing Patience

JOEY

The. Tarts.

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about them since Art pulled them out of the oven earlier. Golden and sweet and perfect.

I know those tarts.

Because I ate two whole containers full of them.

Was Hannah right? Is Art Nevele fucking Ounces?

The rational part of me wants to deny it because the idea is outlandish, but … am I going to stick my head in the sand like that? Hannah saw him at our place. He left tarts exactly the same as these ones. Homemade too. Not something he would have bought from the store.

What are the possibilities that Art left a bunch of food for me and Nevele Ounces came along and paid shit off?

Two separate do-gooders?

I run my hand through my hair, which I’ve just spent the last few minutes getting right. Art will be here to pick me up for our date soon, and I’d hoped that by the time I saw him again, I’d know where I stand on the whole thing. On one hand, I feel like I’m supposed to be all grateful, and I am. Mostly. I think.

It’s just … There’s the nagging little voice in my head asking if the only reason Art’s giving me the time of day is because he sees me as some kind of charity case. He’s given me a great job, doesn’t get pissy about being flexible, and now has literally paid off every damn thing I owed … My gut turns over itself again, spilling out a feeling that is suspiciously like guilt.

No matter how many times I remind myself that I didn’t ask for this, that Art can do whatever he wants with his time and money, it doesn’t help. I feel like, well, a loser. A man who can’t even look after himself, and if Art is responsible for everything that I suspect he is, that means he knows that about me. How the hell can he be interested in a man who’ll never be able to support him the way he supports them?

I’m self-sabotaging. Already. Over a relationship that’s barely even started.

The knock on the door makes me swallow my nerves and halt my freak-out where it stands. I’ve waited too damn long for this date, and I’m not about to ruin it by asking questions I might not want to know the answer to.

“Joey, superhot boss man is here,” Hannah calls, and I catch Art’s muffled laugh.

No need to stroke his inflated ego. I head out into the living room and know exactly what she means about superhot. That man is suuuuper fucking hot.

Dark gray slacks, heavy watch, black button-up open and showing off a glimpse of brown chest and dark hair.

“My eyes are up here.”

And when I meet said eyes, they’re right above the cockiest smirk I think he’s ever worn.

“You guys might be dressed, but this feels pornographic,” Hannah says, covering her face. “I’m out.” And she hurries into her bedroom and slams the door.

Thank fuck.

I close the few feet separating me from Art and press up into a searing kiss. After a morning of being restrained, I’ve needed this. Badly. Especially when he grabs my ass with both hands and squeezes. His soft groan almost has me suggesting we cut this date short and skip to the end-of-night festivities. It’s only my curiosity that stops the words from coming.

“I’ve missed having my hands on you,” he says, voice gravelly and deep.

“It hasn’t even been a whole day.”

“I know. You’re a real problem.”

“If you thought I was going to be anything less than trouble when you met me, you’re not a good judge of character.”

“And that’s exactly what got my attention in the first place.” He squeezes my ass one more time before stepping away. “Let’s go.”

“I didn’t get the memo about dressing up,” I say. At least my faded jeans don’t have rips in them though. “Maybe I should change?”

“Nope, you look perfect.”

“I do?”

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