Page 23 of Love Finds Home

“Why are you so good to me?” she asks, throwing her arms around his waist and clinging to him.

“Because you’re beautiful and talented. And you keep me around to stroke your ego.”

They both laugh at that and I want to punch something.

“Well, since my ego is the only thing you’ll stroke of mine…” She rolls her eyes.

Wait, does that mean he isn’t stroking her…whatever she gets stroked? I’m so confused. I feel Barbie come up behind me, but I don’t pay her any mind as I make my way between the pair.

“What the fuck is this?” I ask.

The man looks me up and down, from my head to my toes and back again, arching his brow when I figure he’s right around my crotch.

“Oh, my God, Jorge, just ignore him. He’s an asshole.”

She’s not wrong, but who the fuck is she to call me an asshole? I’m the only one who can say I’m an asshole.

“Oh, is this one of your straights, baby girl?”

Does that mean he’s…? Oh, hmm, well, maybe I don’t want to punch his face in. At least not as much as I did a few minutes ago.

“Jorge meet Ranger,” Elle gives a half assed attempted to introduce me.

“Jonathan Cross.” And, yes, I stick my hand out to him. “I’m the owner of the tattoo parlor and the studio that Ella is renting.”

“So you’re the one who—” Elle jumps up and climbs him like a tree, cutting off his words by covering his mouth with her hand.

She told somebody? Fuck, does that mean everybody knows?

Flustered, Elle turns to me. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

Barbie, who’s been quiet during our exchange, squeals Jorge’s name and rushes into his waiting arms. What is it with this man getting all the love from the women?

“Who are you?” I ask him. I swear, I’m not trying to sound like a dick, but, well, yeah, I sound exactly like a dick.

“I’m every woman’s favorite gay, Jorge.” He gives me a megawatt smile and shakes my outstretched hand.

I shake it and feel my lips almost tip into a smile at his introduction. “Well, okay then. Nice to meet you, I guess?”

He laughs. “I’m here to bring her her art shit.”

“Hey!” Elle yells from the back of the van. “My art ain’t shit!”

“I never said your art was shit!” he yells back. “I said I was bringing your art shit! Two different things, baby girl.”

“Whatever.” I can feel her roll her eyes even if I can’t see them. “Are you gonna help me move it upstairs or not?”

“How many stairs?” Jorge asks, looking like he’s really thinking about saying no.

“No more than twenty.” She smiles and rapidly blinks her eyes at him. Good thing he’s gay, I’d have already caved and started walking the stairs.

“Fuck,” he groans. “I really hate you for making me your pack-mule. You know that right?”

“Nah, you love me.”

“Not always,” he laughs.

I think I might get along with this guy, especially now that I know he’s not stroking her. But when he opens the doors to the back of the moving truck and I get an eye full of all the art shit, I know I’m going to be roped into helping. Why couldn’t she plan this better? Where is her big muscled brother to help carry all her crap up the fucking stairs? Jorge looks at me as the realization sinks in, and he gives me a knowing head nod.

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