Page 17 of Follow Your Bliss

“Okay.” Oh shit. I scrambled to get my phone out of my pocket before he texted, but it was too late. The song “I’m Too Sexy” by Right Said Fred blared loud for us both to hear, and my face went hot.

I murmuredthanksand shut it off, meeting his twinkling eyes. He glanced down to my phone with pursed lips, trying to hold back a laugh, which he lost control of.

Curse my love of assigning songs to contacts. The moment I got in the car, I was changing that to the theme song forFriends.

“Okay, roomie,” he said. “I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow.”

“The brightest!” If I didn’t die of embarrassment first.

Jason

A half-block away from home, I leaned over panting, hands on knees. I hadn’t even made it five miles this morning after fitful, scant hours of nightmares about ghosts running up and down the loft steps.

And the rest of the night trying not to think about Rose. I pulled my water bottle from its pouch and took a long draft. She sure liked to touch, didn’t she? Jesus. Over and over. She had me so amped up I had to use a drop cloth as a shield so she couldn’t see what even those spare touches were doing to me. Then surprise-hugging me. My self-abstinence wasn’t going to last much longer with her around.

Fuck it, I’d just walk the rest of the way home. I had so much to get to today, not least of which was planning what questions I had for the Big Dick people. I’d taken their first available appointment—next Friday—so I had almost two weeks to obsess over it. It had to go well. Working with them was my only way to turn that vast, empty community room into a two-story home. If only the worries Mom put in my head about being associated with them weren’t warring with the excitement of a dream coming true.

A moving truck pulled out from my driveway and passed me on the road. Rose must be all moved in. Even though I’d always planned to rent out the rectory apartment, it felt weird to be a landlord. And now that I was, I had to douse my attraction to Rose—even though she apparently thought I was sexy. I grinned to myself. As intriguing as that was, what really puffed out my chest was her reaction to all my hard work.

My followers on all my social media platforms loved everything I did. Every step of the way through renovation they cheered me on, raved over my finish selections, and sent me more than a few marriage proposals. My family had been by a few times and been impressed. But man, Rose’s admiration hit different.

She’d looked like a Disney princess discovering a new castle with her long, curly hair, graceful movements, and expressions of wonder. And every time she touched me, my body completely lost it—instant shivers, instant arousal.

But I closed that door firmly in my mind. Despite what seemed to be a mutual attraction, none of that mattered. She wasn’t marriage-minded, my mom didn’t like her, and she was my renter. Three strikes. She probably had a boyfriend—a bonus strike four.

I entered the back door, the one I told Rose I’d exclusively use while I was using her kitchen and bathroom. Footsteps and shifting noises emanated from the direction of her hallway and living area. I grabbed a water from the fridge and called out a good morning.

“Morning! I’m back here!”

I followed her voice to her living room, which was a sea of boxes, several open but unpacked. Styrofoam peanuts littered the floor.

“Rose?” I peeked around the boxes.

A blanket with a cat flying a rocket ship covered a mound in the middle of the room. Half the blanket flopped down to reveal her lying on a giant bean bag chair. I jumped and pressed my hand to my pounding heart, still skittish from my night in the now-surely-haunted church.

“Jesus, Rose, you scared the shit out of me. What are you doing?”

She pressed her fingertips under her watery-looking eyes. “I’m so stressed out. There’s too much stuff, and it’s everywhere. My mom even sent over all my stuff from her attic. I don’t know how she talked the movers into taking more than they originally agreed to.” She covered her head back up with the blanket. “She probably promised them a bunch of free sex toys.”

Her voice was muffled. Surely, I didn’t hear her right.

“What?” I asked. But no. As much as I wanted to pull that thread, that’s not what was important. Nor was that appropriate as her landlord. “Let me know if you need help moving furniture or anything. I’ve got a bed frame to finish filming, so I’ll be in the workshop.”

The blanket flopped back down. “Filming? Is that some kind of woodworking technique?”

“Filming for my social media channels.”

“Oh, is that why you take so many pictures of yourself?” Her eyes widened. “That was so rude. I’m sorry.” She stood up and folded her blanket, dropping it into a box. Another tank top and short shorts today.

“Where have you seen me take a bunch of pictures of myself?”

“At Becca’s shower. The selfie stick usage was a little unhinged. What do you do online? You said you’re an architect, right?”

“That’s what I studied, but it’s pretty tough to break into.”

“So, what do you do? And how did I miss asking you this?”

“I build custom furniture—bookshelves, tables, beds, cabinetry, even decks. That kind of thing. There’s a huge market locally for handcrafted furniture, and between that and the money coming in from my social media sponsorships, ads, affiliates, merch, et cetera, I’m making more than I would as a beginning architect in Louisiana.”

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