Page 13 of Outspoken

I smile. I would love to spend the evening with Miguel, pigging out on dessert. But it’s not a good idea. “Um, hey, I was thinking…since Brody will be back any day now and I'm focusing on finding work”—I glance around at everything that’s been fixed—“I should really pay you and your family back for the carpet and light. And for convincing Dustin to drop off the couch.”

He shrugs. “You don't owe anything. It was all free anyway. That's the perk of having a large family and being friendly—someone always knows someone else who has what you need and is willing to help out.” He rinses a fork. “I owe people some free training sessions, and I'm helping my cousin move since he provided the carpet and installed it, but that's not on you.”

“That is on me. I know this was all for Brody, but I need to contribute too. Let me do something for them or at least pay you for your time. Or I’ll do something for your aunt to thank her for the meals.”

He shrugs again. “No one expects anything in return.”

I stare at objects in the living room as if there's something I can offer, something I can do to repay his generosity and kindness. It’s not only about the furnishings. He didn't have to bring me dinner, or help me clean, or comfort me, or give me someone to talk to during some of the loneliest weeks of my life. That's beyond his friendship with Brody.

All I ever do is take and I hate it. I don’t want to be that person any more.

My shoulders drop in defeat because I have nothing to offer. “Thank you, Miguel, for everything. And thank your family and friends for me again.”

He nods, turning off the faucet and drying his hands on a towel. When he looks at me, he freezes, his eyes startled.

“What?” I ask.

He swallows, staring at my jacket with concern, but he doesn’t respond.

I squirm in my seat. “What is it?” I touch my face, wondering if there is a glob of chicken bake on my cheek or something.

He finally peels his eyes away from me, rubbing the back of his neck. The corners of his mouth tighten and I can sense his inner conflict. “I should…I think we need to talk.”

My heart pounds when our eyes connect. A jolt shoots up my spine.Talk about what?Needing to talk is never good. It also feels too intimate. ‘Talking’ means we’ve reached a certain level of familiarity. I’m not prepared for that. I don’t want anything to do with ‘talking’ right now. My emotions aren’t stable enough.

“Like, something serious?” I ask, gripping the edge of the table.

“Not exactly. You asked about my flirting and—”

I jump to my feet. “Whatever it is, it’s…Listen, it’s fine. It was innocent flirting, and you were trying to cheer me up, right? I should probably get back to applying for jobs, and I have to run some errands…” I don’t have any errands, and I'm sure I'll cry on the couch after he leaves because I’m pathetic, but it’s better if he goes. “Thank you for bringing dinner and hanging out. I think we should say goodnight, don’t you?”

His gaze drops to my jacket again. He seems obsessed with it, and I’m tempted to take it off so he’ll stop staring.

He finally sighs and studies the tile, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets. “Yeah, I should go.”

“Let me get your aunt's dish.”

“Thanks.”

As I gather the cleaned casserole container, I steady my pulse. I try to hand him the dish, but he motions for me to set it down on the table.

He wets his lips before saying, “Hey, before I go, I have something for you.” He reaches into his back jeans pocket and pulls out a folded white envelope. It looks thick. He hands it to me. “Here. It's for Brody too.”

I open the flap, barely able to understand what’s inside.

Chapter Four

Amber

THE ENVELOPE MIGUEL HANDS ME is heavy—a crisp stack of hundreds inside. I don't need to look to tell it's a few grand.

My heart squeezes, and I immediately close the flap, pushing it back into his palm. “No, this is too much. I can’t…Brody and I can't accept this. You’ve already done more than anyone could ask for. Me and Brody will figure out finances. But this is too much, Miguel.”

He gently pushes my hands away with a warm smile, a smile that reaches his caring eyes. “It's not really mine. It's from Brody's clients.”

“What?”

He runs a hand through his curly, dark hair, loosening the gel and looking shy. “I fit most of Brody's clients around my schedule at the gym. Think of me as a fill-in, helping them in his absence. But it's still his money. A few of his clients left big tips when they heard what happened.”

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