Page 8 of Treat

“I like it fine. It’s just not my favorite sport.” She sipped her coffee and ignored the chest rubbing. Thanks to thewhere-am-I-going-to-sleep-tonightpanic, it was easier than she’d expected. “You’re very good at it, though.”

“How would you know?” He scowled into his coffee. “Did I know this about you when I hired you?”

“You didn’t hire me, the agency did. Well, Chloe did.”

“Did she know?”

“I didn’t tell her, but probably. She knows everything.”

His mustache twitched as he smiled. “That’s true. So, how long have you been living in my apartment?”

Shock hit like a punch to the chest, stopping her heart and driving the breath from her lungs. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out, not even a squeak. Her hand went limp, and her coffee cup would’ve fallen, but her thumb was hooked through the handle so the coffee just spilled out to puddle at her feet. It was the spatter of hot liquid on her toes that jolted her out of her stunned state, and she leaped back. “Shit!”

He pushed up from his stool, his forehead furrowed in concern. “Did you burn yourself?”

“I’m fine.” She grabbed the paper towels and knelt on the floor, mopping at the edges of the puddle before it could spread.

He crouched in front of her. “Let me see.”

She shook her head and concentrated on her task, staring so hard at the coffee soaking into the towels that her eyes started to burn. When they were saturated she tossed them in the sink and tore off a handful more.

“Brynn, the floor is clean enough. Let me check your feet.”

“I need to get some cleaner,” she said, swiping at the now dry floor. “The sugar in the coffee will make it sticky, and the last thing you want is ants.”

“We’re on the tenth floor,” he reminded her and took the paper towels out of her hand. “I don’t give a fuck about ants. Let me see your feet.”

She couldn’t look at him, didn’t want to see in his eyes the quiet pity she could hear in his voice. So she closed her eyes and shifted to lean back against the cabinets, extending her legs out in front of her. She didn’t think her feet were burned, at least not badly, but she was too confused and ashamed to fight him. So she sat quietly while he traced her toes with his calloused fingertips, his touch feather-light.

“They’re a little pink, but I don’t think they’ll blister,” he finally said, the warm weight of one hand on her ankle, as though he thought if he didn’t hold her down, she’d run away.

She kept her eyes closed. “I’m fine.”

“Okay,” he said. “Are you going to open your eyes?”

“No.”

“Okay,” he said again, and he sounded so calm, like “no” was a perfectly reasonable thing for her to say, that she sighed and opened her eyes.

“How did you know?”

“Couple things.” He was sitting cross-legged on the floor by her feet, one hand on her ankle, the other resting on the floor.His body was relaxed, his pose non-threatening, and his eyes were kind. “There’s a jumbo box of tampons under my bathroom sink, your shampoo and conditioner have been on the shelf in the shower long enough to leave rings, and don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re a pretty lousy liar.”

“I know.” She forced herself to meet his gaze. “Am I fired?”

His eyes were unreadable. “I guess that depends on why you’re squatting in my apartment.”

She winced, then sighed. He deserved the truth, no matter how humiliating it was. Besides, she really was a shit liar. “I had some…hiccups with my housing.”

“What kind of hiccups?”

She lifted a hand to run it through her hair, surprised at how much effort the gesture took. She was suddenly exhausted. “My roommate decided to move back in with her parents to save money, and I couldn’t manage the rent by myself, so?—”

“Why not?”

She blinked. “Why not, what?”

“Why couldn’t you manage the rent by yourself?”

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