Page 82 of Finance Bros

Tonight, the mint shirt—very flattering on him with his body type and skin tone—isn’t paired with cargo shorts. He’s wearing faded denim jeans that fit him like a goddamn dream. In addition to carrying Stephanie, he’s got a full on garment bag with him, slung over his shoulder.

“Wardrobe change?” I ask, following my rambling train of thoughts.

“It’s a suit,” he says.

“Like—a work suit?”

He nods. “Can I hang it up?”

“Uh…sure.” I gesture toward my closet. He sets Stephanie on the floor, unfolds the garment bag, makes a space for it on the rod, and hangs it up.

“Did you bring a toothbrush too?”

He looks over his shoulder at me. “Don’t act like we didn’t talk about this.”

I’ll take that as a yes about the toothbrush.

“You’re welcome to change your mind,” he says. “I won’t unpack yet.”

I can’t think about him spending the night or how fast all this is moving. We’ve got actual shit we need to accomplish tonight. “Can we just do the work? Please?”

“You’re ready?”

“To talk about early retirement for fifteen minutes? Yes.” That was the topic that won the poll.

“Where do you wanna do it?”

“My desk, I think.”

“Want me to film?”

“It’s better than me doing it with you staring at me from the side the whole time. Yeah, you can film it.”

He arches a brow. Admittedly, I sound prickly. But then he smiles like it’s all par for the course and goes over to sit in the beanbag. It’s a good place to film from. We’ll get the sunset light and a view of my room that I’ve haven’t used before. I close the bathroom door and make sure nothing “slob”-like winds up in the shot.

Malcolm is making himself comfortable again because I really do think he loves that chair, and says, “I wanna do mine right here.”

He’ll be talking about turning side-hustles into full-time money makers.

I have a seat at my desk, run a hand through my hair, and ask how I look.

“Really fucking good,” he says, his voice low with a hint of a rumble.

I put my hands on my cheeks to make sure they’re not getting too hot. “Behave.”

“I’m just sitting here.”

Yeah, sitting there looking like he’d whip out his cock and start jerking it for me if I asked him to. Has he always been this slutty?

Yes, I remind myself. He has been. It’s just never been directed at me, and that’s why it looks different. I’m normally not a fan of a strong come on, but maybe he’s the exception. If his advances were any weaker than full throttle, I don’t think I would have come within a foot of him after that one time I backed him up against the wall. I lost my cool that time. That won’t happen again. He’s a walking red flag.

“Okay,” I tell him. “I’m ready.”

He positions the phone and starts recording. I start talking. I talk and I talk, and then I think of something else I want to say, and I talk some more. It’s honestly helpful having him here. It feels less like I’m performing, more like I’m sharing something with him I’m passionate about—the way I used to talk about how much I wanted to live in a mansion with two kitchens.

He smiles from time to time and nods like he’s in agreement with where I’m coming from. Eventually he gives me a signal like wrap it up, and I do, adding in a request for people to hop on the Discord and leave their thoughts and questions. He gives me a thumbs up. I stop talking, and he lowers the phone. “Come here.”

I shake my head. “Nope. Your turn.”

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