Page 118 of The Stud

“Yikes,” Dad mutters. “I’m out. Most of my vocab doesn’t expand past six.”

Additional snickers successfully get me to smirk only to have it cut short by an unexpected thud in a different room of the apartment.

What in the actual fuck was that?

Pleaseeeeedon’t tell me Becks broke something again.

The freezer door and other bar stool were enough.

I know the apartment is marketed as industrial chic but that doesn’t mean to test the strength of the shit in it.

“Apologies,” I frustratedly grumble at the same time I tuck my figurine into my beige blazer pocket. “I apparently need to check on my flat mate before I get to the barn.” Rolling the pen into the small booklet occupying space on the island is followed by shutting it closed. “I would not like another broken mystery surprise when I return home in the morning.”

“Any chance he’s doing this shit on purpose?” Dad curiously inspects. “You know…a passive aggressive play?”

“Regarding?”

“The amount of time you spend with your very beautiful other half,” Father promptly replies. “I recall Carson’s roommate who behaved in a similar fashion whenoursleepovers became a bit more frequent.”

Dad grunts out a laugh. “He was just pissed he was gonna have to pay rent alone.”

“Becks currently does not pay rent, so I do not believe that to be the issue.”

Although, we should discuss that.

Especially for when I totally move in with Arden.

Truth time.

I practically already live there.

I have the basics of a toothbrush, deodorant, and boxer briefs; however, I have thelesssimple shit as well.

Bodywash.

Cologne.

A suit.

That’s correct.

Not only do I have a drawer – technically now two – for underwear and sweats and loungewear and workout gear and jeans, I also have an emergency suit hanging in her closet just in case I don’t have time to get backhereto change.

It’s hanging right next to the cocktail dress she was wearing when we first played pool together.

I don’t want to put the point on the board before the biscuit drops but…she did ask if I wanted her to rearrange Bear’s arsenal of dog food and accessories so that I could park Lucilla in the garage beside her jeep.

Fairly certain moving the rest of my shit in comes next.

“Call it food for thought,” Father politely insists.

“Not the game day appie you prefer but take it anyway,” Dad impishly commands.

“Fine.” Picking up my cell to end the call precedes me doing it verbally. “Love you both.”

“Love you,” they echo without hesitation.

Getting to Becks’ room from the kitchen is a short trip, much like opening the door is an easy action given its slightly cracked nature.

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