Page 14 of Rules to Love By

As if in reply, the hallway brightened—the sun probably clearing a cloud—and Marcus could imagine the brick wall on his left and the wooden wall on his right both painted a bright, creamy white. Wire cage lights hung from the pale blue-painted ceiling. A nicer vision than the dusty bricks and bare wood that currently lined the hallway blazed itself into his brain.

“Maybe just one thing at a time, okay?” he said to the walls as he reached the door at the end.

The corridor behind him dipped back into gloom.

Cold steel bit his palm when he gripped the handle, and he jerked his hand back. “Creepy much?” Blowing on stung flesh, he threw his hip against the bar and shoved the door open with his shoulder. It opened with squealing reluctance and slammed shut behind him with a bang the second he was free.

If he didn’t know better, he would have thought the building had been trying to keep him and Eli in the cramped space together longer. Then again, if Mildred, home of the Oaks B and B, notorious for its romantic weekends, was known for playing matchmaker, why not the barbershop?

Shivering, Marcus hurried down the sidewalk to the front steps of the Oaks. He rushed up and inside, strangely glad for the brightly lit kitchen, where the shenanigans were at least familiar.

“How’d it go?” Tris greeted him with a mug of coffee and a sparkling smile the minute he pushed through the swinging doors.

“Um…” Marcus tossed his papers and tool belt onto the counter and took the mug. “Good?”

“You’re not sure? Is he going to hire you?”

“How did you know—”

“He told us when he came for his coffee, obvo. Made it sound like a done deal.”

“Well—” Marcus sipped and pointed at the papers. “—I have to run that past Ozzy to see if my estimates are accurate before I show it to Mr. Benson, but yeah. I think it’s fine. Nothing I can’t actually do.”

“That’s good, then, right? Why so…” Tris waved a hand at him, as if that explained what his words trailed away from.

“Nothing.”

If there had been a few moments where he’d thought Eli might have been flirting with him, the brusque dismissal at the bottom of the stairs put paid to that. And why would a university student flirt with someone like Marcus—a failed fry cook and wannabe handyman?

Tris narrowed his eyes at Marcus. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit. You were over there forever.”

“Nothing.” Marcus climbed onto one of the stools. “I talked to Eli. We had eggs.”

“Really.” Tris crossed his arms. “You eat breakfast here.”

“He offered. It would have been rude to say no.”

“And since when do you care about being rude to guys?”

“Since his father might hire me for an actual paid gig?”

“And if he’d suggested you fuck for the job would you—”

Marcus glared into his coffee.

“Sorry.” Tris touched his hand. “I’m sorry—that was shitty.”

“Why? Because it’s true?”

“It was different, and you were different.”

“I was a slut, Tris. Let’s not pretend I wasn’t. I had choices, and I chose to be a man whore.”

“And now you’re just being an asshole.”

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