Page 60 of Messy Strokes (Wrecked Roommates)

“And?”

“And I told him about us.”

“What else?” he prods.

“He offered me the job.”

Another beat of silence follows my response as he glances over at me. “And?”

“And I said I’d have to think about it.”

His large hands are wrapped around the steering wheel. When he squeezes it, his forearms tighten, too, showcasing those damn muscles and veins I used to love dragging my tongue across. I’m sure he has no idea I’m busy drooling over him while he’s busy contemplating what little tidbits I’ve thrown his way in regards to my conversation with his boss.

“Okay.”

“You’re not gonna tell me I shouldn’t work there?”

“I think it’s a good idea.”

“You do?”

He glances at me before turning his attention back to the road. “I make the schedule, Mads. I’d be able to make sure we didn’t overlap shifts so one of us could always be with Penny. And if they ever do overlap, we can bring her in for an hour or two. It’d work fine.”

“But us”––I wave my finger back and forth between us––“working together…?”

“It’d be fine.”

“You’re sure?”

A breath of laughter escapes him as he rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Yes, Mads. I’m sure.”

“‘Cause if you’re not, I can keep looking.”

“Stop overthinking shit. That’s my job, remember?” His mouth quirks up on one side. He turns back to the road and adds, “Tell me what else Jos said.”

“He mentioned he’s planning to sell the business to you.”

“No shit?” With wide eyes, he looks over at me again, gifting me with those mesmerizing eyes not hidden beneath his sunglasses for once.

How is he so freaking gorgeous?

“Yup. The guy was chatty,” I continue, attempting to focus on the current conversation and not why he has the freaking drawing of me hung up at his work. “He also mentioned an art gallery hosting an art show coming up looking to highlight some new artists?”

Milo’s jaw tightens, his earlier amusement replaced with such an intensity it leaves me squeamish.

Why, hello again, minefield.

“Any chance you were planning on submitting a piece?” I ask carefully.

“I don’t have time.”

“Jos thinks you should make time.”

“I’ve already had this conversation with him.”

“And, apparently, he didn’t like your excuses.”

He grunts and checks his blind spot but doesn’t bother to reply.

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