Page 60 of Personal Foul

“Right.” Didn’t think about that. “I can see that.” That’s the reason I wouldn’t let my parents buy me a house here, to be honest. Isabelle suggested we get a place together, and my dad said he could just buy me something, but I declined his offer. I wanted the more typical college experience.

Stupid, really. If we owned a house outright, I wouldn’t have to worry about being able to pay my rent.

Of course, when I made that decision, I had no way of knowing my dad would be under investigation and have his accounts frozen so …

Clearing my throat, I nod. “Okay. I’ll concede that you make a practice out of helping your friends. I’m still not sure how you think you can help me, though. It’s not like I can move in here.”

He opens his mouth, hesitates, then says, “Right.”

The doubt loaded up into that one word makes me laugh incredulously. “Wait, wait, wait. Is that really what you were going to suggest?”

Shaking his head, he crosses his arms. “No. I actually wasn’t, but it’s really not a terrible idea. I wouldn’t charge you rent. It would be temporary until you could get your financial situation figured out. Plus, since you’re still ostensibly my girlfriend, it would make sense.”

“I amnotyour girlfriend.”

He shrugs, like it’s a matter of interpretation.

“I’m not!” I insist.

“Iknow that, andyouknow that, but everyone else? They think you are. And if my girlfriend were having money problems, you don’t think I’d offer to let her move in? Everyone would think I’m a complete douchebag!”

“You are a complete douchebag!” The words are out of my mouth before I can think about them, and Dylan flinches, like me saying that actually stings.

He stands and picks up his plate. “Are you sureI’mthe asshole here, Charity?”

I frown as he walks past me, puzzled by his use of my name. “Hold on. Are you actually upset right now?”

“Yes, I’m upset!” He reappears in the doorway to the kitchen, hands on his hips. “I’m offering to help you and you’re calling me names! Would a douchebag offer to help?”

Biting my lip, I survey him. He looks almost larger than life, his anger making him seem to take up more space than usual. Or maybe it’s that he’s pretty laid back most of the time, which makes him seem to take up less space than he does.

“I’m sorry,” I say at length, though I don’t sound sorry even to my own ears.

He crosses his arms and scoffs.

“Look.” I hold out a hand in supplication. “You haven’t exactly been the greatest to me before now, have you? Can you blame me for thinking you’re a douchebag? Youarea douchebag. You blackmailed me!” I smack my hands on the arm of the couch, practically shrieking.

He looks taken aback for a second, then blows out a breath, looking away and nodding. “Yeah. Okay. You’re right. I am a douchebag.” He sounds so defeated that I almost want to apologize again.

Almost.

Except I still don’t think I really should’ve apologized in the first place. Hehasbeen awful to me. I don’t think reactively saying so should be held against me, even if he is offering to help me now.

Crossing my arms, I stare at him, and he stares at me. “Why are you so stuck on me being your girlfriend anyway?”

He shrugs, his big, round shoulders moving up and down in the most mesmerizing way. His T-shirt hugs all his muscular curves just right, like it’s handpicked to do that very job. Hell, it probably is. Dude knows how to dress, even when he’s just in hanging out around the house clothes. Designer sweats. Fitted tees. I don’t even want to know how much his wardrobe costs.

I have some higher quality pieces, sure, but most of my school year purchases are from the clearance rack at the higher end department stores or from more normal college student places like Target. Although thrifting with Isabelle is a fun adventure. She’s altered some cool things for me to make them one of a kind. Plus she only buys pieces that are decently high quality. “If I’m going to the trouble of making it look awesome, I want it to be worth the effort,” she told me the first time I went with her on one of her thrifting adventures.

Somehow her one-of-a-kind pieces feel less pretentious than the kind of haute couture that Dylan’s family probably wears. Probably because she’s my friend, and I only have to pay whatever the thing costs at the thrift store and maybe a couple spools of thread or whatever else she needs for my specific piece.

“Should we break up?” he asks.

Which makes me laugh, and I can tell by the look on his face that that’s the wrong reaction. That seems to be my specialty with him today. But honestly, who’d have thought that the guy who blackmailed me into cleaning his apartment in a skimpy maid’s costume would get this butthurt that I don’t think he’s amazing? Why is he surprised?

“I’m sorry,” I say when I get control of myself, fanning my face with my hand. “Oh man, that’s funny.”

“Why is it so funny?” he grumbles.

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