Page 18 of Seale the Deal

Not anymore, I say, gentler now. Now you live with a guy who doesn’t trust store-bought meat and have a best friend who dry heaves if you say the word cutlet out loud.

She blinks. I eat babies.

Her voice cracks. Is she about to cry again?

She pushes back from the table and stands. Well. That was a lovely first day. I nearly got eaten by bats, sobbed like a child because my best friend dared to have a life, and now I’ve discovered I’m a baby-murdering carnivore.

I maybe wouldn’t say that last thing out loud—

I’d like to go to bed now, she says sternly, and I can tell by the look in her eyes that any lightness in the conversation is now gone.

I swallow. Okay, I’ll take you to my room.

She lifts a brow.

I mean, your room. I’ll show you.

She sighs and heads toward the hallway, pausing at her suitcases.

Just up there. I gesture to the stairs. She glances down at her bags, then up the stairs again. I’ll get them, I offer, moving past her.

She starts up, and I follow. I do my best not to look at her legs. Or her hips. Or the dip of her waist beneath her too-thin T-shirt. But God help me, I notice everything.

She stops at the top of the stairs, and I flip the hallway light on. It’s dim and narrow up here, just three doors.

Left is my room. Right’s yours. Straight ahead is the bathroom. Sorry to say it’s the only one.

She nods. Okay. She rolls her suitcases down the hall and stops at her door. Good night.

Night.

The door clicks shut behind her, and I exhale hard, leaning against the wall.

Ninety days to get married.

After that comes the adjustment-of-status paperwork, interviews, more paperwork, and, according to Remi’s optimistic research, hopefully only a few more months before Wrenley gets her green card.

That is, assuming nothing goes wrong.

And what are the chances of that?

Chapter 3

Wrenley

DAYS LEFT ON VISA: 89

I twirl carefully, trying not to spill the pancake batter I’m mixing as Nickelback blasts through my earbuds.

It’s my signature morning routine: music, dancing, and coffee.

Well. Normally, coffee.

This morning lacks caffeine because Ruger’s coffee machine appears to require either technical training or a blood oath. It could be because I’ve never actually made coffee before. Between coffee shops practically every two steps along my commute to work and that I’ve always preferred mine iced anyway, there was never much reason to learn. But the sleek Moccamaster sitting on Ruger’s counter looks intimidating with all its separate pieces, even though I have a feeling it’s just a fancy drip coffee maker.

Usually, I’d have my speaker cranked loud enough to concern neighbours and be halfway through a theatrical performance by now, but I left my speaker with Kay’s daughter back in Vancouver.

She’d become one of my favourite parts of the morning.