All the Feels (Spoiler Alert #2)(6)

She returned her attention to her book, and he huffed in displeasure. Normally, any mention of his most unmitigated disaster of a movie provoked lively discussion. But, of course, even Mimes and Moonlight couldn’t do the trick this time. Not when the woman at the other end of the conversation was a blank wall in human form.

After some over-the-counter painkillers and a good meal from craft services, he’d gotten over the worst of that morning’s rage. At least, the portion of it directed toward her. One good midday nap in his trailer later—while she sat on the too-hard couch, phone in hand, and said not a word—and he was ready to admit that her newfound, near-constant presence in his life wasn’t actually her fault. People needed jobs, and he couldn’t blame her for accepting her cousin’s offer, despite the profound dickishness of said cousin.

To put up with Ron’s obvious disdain for her, she must need the money very, very badly.

He frowned again.

“Hey, Lauren, if you ever need a loan or something, let me know,” he said as he positioned himself on the thick blue mat for push-ups.

With that, he had her attention entirely. Setting her e-reader on the floor beside her, she stared at him with her brow crinkled.

“You met me this morning.” Each word contained an entire universe of precise disapproval. Or … maybe not disapproval, but something close to it. Confusion? Suspicion? “This past hour is the lengthiest interaction we’ve ever had.”

He paused with his arms fully extended, bracing his weight. “And?”

“And you just offered to loan me money.” She enunciated very clearly. “You don’t know me well enough for that, Alex.”

He tried to shrug while in push-up stance, with only limited success. “I disagree.”

Her reaction that morning, when he’d asked what she would do if he were in medical danger, told him enough about her character. She didn’t want him to get into trouble. She wasn’t rooting for his failure and punishment.

None of this was personal, and she had a sense of honor.

Thus: loan. Loans, plural, as necessary.

He began to clap between each push-up, considering the matter.

It was possible such situations explained why his savings and retirement accounts weren’t quite as robust as they could have been. Or so Marcus regularly informed him. Then there was the money he sent his mom every month, and all the charities that depended on his contributions, and the friends he allowed to stay rent-free in his guesthouse when they were between jobs.

Although he was apparently renting out his guesthouse for the next nine months at fair market value, so who was the financial genius now, huh, Marcus?

When he turned his head to glance at Lauren, her mouth was slightly open, and she was gaping at him. Now she looked less avian and more piscine.

Finally, with a shake of her head, she picked up her e-reader and got back to her book.

No more clapping. Time for one-armed push-ups instead.

“Hey, Lauren,” he said. “We should go to a club together. I think your presence would be very convenient. You’re so short, I could rest my drink on top of your head, no table necessary.”

Did she ever dance? Probably not.

Much as he hated to affirm Ron’s judgment, she did seem distinctly joyless. Not ridiculous, though. The situation: definitely. Her: no.

She exhaled rather more loudly than usual. “Are you almost done with your workout? I’d like to grab dinner and get to bed soon.”

“After I stretch.” Which he intended to do at length and within full view of her. Just in case she paid attention this time. “Not too long now.”

He let himself drop to the mat and reclined on his side, propping his head on his palm, letting his pulse slow a moment. His head throbbed with every heartbeat, which wasn’t an especially pleasant sensation.

Still: He didn’t regret what he’d done, and he wouldn’t bemoan its physical consequences. His discomfort was just penance, considering his past.

“Hey, Lauren,” he said. “Who’s your favorite character on Gods of the Gates? It’s me, isn’t it? Cupid? C’mon, you know it’s Cupid.”

When she didn’t answer, he stretched his right quad, his jaw cracking in a magnificent yawn.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he told her.

WHEN LAUREN WAS growing up, her family owned a cat.

Or, rather, the cat owned them.

When their feline dictator—originally named Slippers, for the white bottoms of her paws, before the family decided Lucifer suited her better—wanted their attention, she wanted it right away. And she always wanted their attention. But sometimes they couldn’t immediately gather her into a bridal carry, her preferred cuddling position, and rub her belly or scratch her ears, because they had to—for instance—sleep. Or give attention to one of the non-cat members of the household, despite their lesser importance.

She would perch on the nearest table, look them dead in the eye, and nudge something fragile toward the edge. If they didn’t pick her up, she’d nudge again. And if they didn’t bend to her will then, over the edge that fragile item would go.

Eventually, the family had packed away any smallish items not made of, say, rubber. Which was when the retaliatory pooping began.

When Lucifer died after a long, extremely spoiled, and intermittently malevolent life, though, they’d all cried. Because that cat might have been a diabolical bitch, but she was gorgeous and sleek and intelligent and entertaining as hell, even while she was frustrating the entire family.