CHAPTER 9 BENNETT #3
“Well, I can leave if you want to get some more sleep.”
“No,” I almost say in a panic and then clear my throat. “I mean, no, it’s okay. I was up anyway.”
“Okay.” She eyes me for a moment. “If this is about the horniness, I can possibly see if I can find someone for you.”
I shake my head. “It’s not. It’s fine. Sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?” She nudges me with her foot.
“You don’t need to apologize. Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without you at this point.
I’m so lucky that you live here and have been willing to help out.
I thought bringing a cronut over might be nice given your sweet tooth, but I’m seeing that maybe the morning after a late night might not be the best choice. ”
“No, it is,” I say. “Just, yeah, forget I even got weird.” I look her in the eyes. “Thank you for the cronut, feel free to bring over pastries every morning if you want.”
“Don’t tease me. There are enough pastries in this city to try something new every day for a year. Ooo—” Her eyes widen with excitement. “We could start a food blog about pastries. Kind of like what Nolan does with his breakfast burritos.”
“That would require me caring about social media, and I don’t care in the slightest.”
“Yeah, you don’t seem like someone who would care. Maybe we can keep the reviews to ourselves. Start a notebook, rate them.”
“I could get on board with that,” I say and take a bite of my cronut. “What would you rate this?”
“Well, given my moaning, I would grade it pretty high. Oh, maybe we can rate it by moans? How loud and long it made me moan.”
“Or we can go by stars. Stars are pretty universal.” Because I don’t need her moaning around me.
“Ugh, boring, but fine.” She examines the cronut. “Are we talking solid one through five stars here, or can we go with decimals?”
“I think we can go with decimals.”
“You’re a real savior.” She studies the cronut some more. “Okay, I think I’d give this a four-point-two-seven.”
“A four-point-two-seven?” I ask. “How the hell did you come up with that?”
She shrugs. “Just felt right.”
I shake my head because she’s weird but really fucking cute.
“What about you?” she asks. “What would you give it?”
“If we’re giving oddball numbers, then three-point-eight-two-three.”
Her mouth falls open and she sets her cronut down. “What? Three-point-eight-two-three? Have you lost your mind? That’s outrageous.”
“How is that outrageous?”
“Because”—she picks up her cronut again—“this hybrid of a flaky, buttery croissant and ooey-gooey donut is easily no less than a four-point-one-seven-two-nine and you go and give it a three-point-eight-two-three?” She shakes her head.
“You’re no longer invited to offer ratings with that kind of tomfoolery. ”
“This coming from the person who uses a four-point-one- seven-two-nine as a rating.”
“I’m impressed you remembered those numbers, because I couldn’t have told you what it was if you asked me.”
I chuckle. “My point exactly. I think decimals have to be taken out.”
“Decimals are what makes the world run smoothly.”
“Why are you like this?”
“Unsure.” She smirks and then nudges me again. “There you are, the easygoing guy I know.”
“Was here the whole time.”
“No, you weren’t, but nice try.” She wipes her hands on a napkin.
Not wanting to harp on my weird mood, but instead, try to show her what a fun, compatible guy I can be for her, I say, “So when are you going to invite me over to your place so I can see it?”
“Ooof, that will be a little while.”
My brow scrunches together. “Why?”
“Everything is still in boxes besides clothes. Haven’t had much time to unpack since I’ve been either helping my boss, running errands, or too exhausted after the day to even think about unpacking.”
“You can’t live like that, Bower. You have to unpack. I can help you.”
“No.” She shakes her head and hops off the counter. “You’ve already done so much for me.”
I press my hand to her hip, keeping her in place against the cabinets, her eyes shooting up to me in surprise. “I’m serious,” I say, dropping my tone so it’s softer. “Let me help you.”
Her eyes search mine for a second before she says, “But you’re…you’re so busy and you’ve already done so much. I can’t ask you to do that for me.”
“You’re not asking me to do anything. I’m offering.”
“I know, but—”
I move in closer to her, watching her expression morph into even more surprise. “I have an afternoon game on Saturday. I can help after that. We could order pizza and tackle all the boxes. Get it done so you can retreat to a home after you get done with work.”
She swallows. “You, uh, you would do that?”
“Of course I would.” I release her hip. “But you’re paying for the pizza.”
She clears her throat on a laugh. “Okay, says the multimillionaire.”
“If you want the muscles to come work for you, then you’re going to have to pay up.”
“And the way to the use of your muscles is through pizza?”
No, it’s you.
But it doesn’t seem like that’s something I can ask for.
“It is. Pepperoni with mushrooms.” I wink and then shove the rest of my cronut in my mouth.