Page 72 of Roommate
“That’s right.”
“Holy fuck. The gay agenda is alive and well, so long as you’re a bull. Why are the evangelicals not up in arms about this?”
“Because.” He taps the magazine. “Quality bull semen sells for fifty bucks a pop, and they can harvest him once a week.”
“Hot damn. I’m in the wrong line of work. This is like our favorite episode of Silicon Valley. How many bulls can I jack off in an hour? Forty, you think?”
Kieran just shakes his head. He knows I’m clowning around to get his attention. And he doesn’t even seem to mind.
“Let’s practice,” I suggest. “On you.”
His chuckle is low and deep, and I feel it against my chest. “I would if I could. But I have a call with an admissions officer at Burlington U in ten minutes.”
“Oh!” I wrap an arm around him. “Is this it? Did you get into the class you wanted?”
His brow furrows. “Not yet.”
“Then what’s the call for?” I sit up to give the man some space. He’s so tolerant of my clingy nature. He’s still gruff and a little hard to read. But he also seems starved for physical affection. And I sure don’t mind providing it.
“Well, she’s trying to talk me into applying for the undergraduate degree program. She said I’d be eligible for financial aid, and every class I took would be half price or less.”
“Winner, winner, chicken dinner!” I clap my hands. “Sounds like a plan. What’s the catch?”
“It’s more work,” he says slowly, and those eyes I love so much grow worried. “I’d have to take two courses at a time instead of one.”
“So? Zara already agreed to cut your hours in the new year.” Besides, nobody works harder than Kieran. He could slice through two design courses like a sharp knife through butter.
“But they’ll grade me,” he says with a shiver. “I’d have to do well to keep my financial aid. That means taking the tests instead of just listening from the back.”
“Oh,” I say softly. And now I understand the issue. Kieran had planned to audit these classes the way that he does everything—thoughtfully but silently. If he’s taking the courses for credit, he’ll have to raise his hand, or even—gasp—contribute to a group project.
“And do I really want to be a twenty-five-year-old freshman?” he asks, sitting up beside me. There’s confusion in those lovely brown eyes.
Yes you do, I realize. The question wouldn’t be troubling him at all if he didn’t understand the benefit.
But I won’t push him. My strong, silent-type boyfriend doesn’t need someone to order him around. Instead, I ask a couple of crucial questions. “What’s the commitment?”
“Two classes, starting in January.”
“And how long will they last?”
“Well, the semester goes until May. But a degree would take me eight years at that pace.” He laughs. “Can you imagine?”
The thing is that I can. Kieran loves design. He should get the chance to find out what it’s like to surround himself with other design nerds. “So you’re saying that it’s only a four-month trial. If you hate it, you can stop before the strawberries are ripe. And you’d still have the benefit of those two classes.”
He opens his mouth to argue with me, and then shuts it again.
“Look, I’m not the kind of guy who’s going to tell you how to plan your life, because I’m pretty bad at planning my own. But this is an opportunity, not a problem. I never got to try music school. And I’ll probably always wonder what that would have been like. Here’s this nice lady who’s offering you a shot. Just think about it.”
He rubs his forehead. “I just wanted to ease into it.”
“Uh-huh.” I grin.
“I’m terrible at trying new things.”
I reach out a hand and pat his firm chest. “Gotta call bullshit on that. You tried me in bed. And on the rug. And in the shower…”
He snorts. “Fine. Sure. It only took me eight years after I first thought about you.”
