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His arms are crossed.
They’re crossed.
Over his chest.
Because he’s upset.
I’ve never seen this before.
The way the action displays his muscles is something I am entirely unprepared for.
“What are you looking at?” he asks.
My gaze drags up off his chest and to his face. I squeak, “Nothing.”
Confusion knits his brows, but he lets it slide. “Marcella, please. If not for you, for your friend. Think of Penny. I can’t imagine she’d want you to stay here if you had another option. I can’t imagine that she’s in a better situation if she can’t give you a better option.”
She…really isn’t. She’s a starving artist who takes that term too literally. She’ll forget to eat almost daily because she’s busy working two part-time minimum wage jobs and fighting in the weary evenings to get her projects off the ground before she passes out with a paintbrush in her hand.
If we were in the same building, I could work making sure she at least has dinner into my schedule. I could bring her water while she paints. It wouldn’t be so bad. Probably less loud than my current neighbors.
Dropping my chin, I mutter, “That’s playing dirty.”
“I cannot find it in myself to care less.”
My eyes close. “You suck.” And, yet, for the first time in two months, I’m not certain I despise this side of him. “Fine. Let’s hurry up and get going. I’ll need to get a head start on phone calls and emails to adjust your schedule tomorrow morning. The soonest I can make it work is noon.”
“Perfect. I’ll take you to lunch. Think of where you’d like to go.”
To bed. I would like to go to bed.
And, isn’t it ironic, that in the four years since I was a dorm student, I’m going to have a bed to go to…
The part where you mentioned wanting a functioning AC seventeen times in two hundred questions. Also, the police outside was a compelling factor in my lack of understanding.
– Finnegan
Chapter 7
I can’t believe you followed through on getting me a Publix cake.
– Marcella
If I weren’t aggressively shoving a Minecraft cake from Publix into my mouth right now, I don’t think I’d be able to survive this experience. Sipping an ice coffee that magically appeared with the cake and F-man this morning, I furiously type what must be my fiftieth apology email concerning Mr. Marsh’s absence today while seated at the marble island counter in what is not a mansion.
It’s a freaking castle.
I could barely tell last night, as the moonlight fell upon the stone peaks and towers of the exterior, but it’s a two-story castle. Complete with gardens and fountains, hot tubs and pools, twelve bathrooms, eight bedrooms, a movie theater, a separate garage. A glorious staircase leads up to double entry doors, for cryin’ out loud.
Lavish is an understatement.
Luxurious does not begin to explain.
My beautiful, tall, curly-headed Penny drifts through the bright dining area before me, green eyes agleam. Her mouth hasn’t shut since I had to buzz her in at the gate, which is roughly eight thousand miles away past luscious green lawns, sculptures, and topiaries.
“And…” she begins, prayerfully quiet, “…I can live here with Marciboo?”
Behind her, smile wide as ever, F-man says, “Yes.”
