Page 80 of An Accidental Flatmate

She swung back so fast, he was hit by the icy air she generated. “I’ve never lied to you.”

“I’m sensing a but in there.”

“We’ve both inserted buts in the last month.”

“You said Rachel lied for Smithers. Does that mean she supported his version of the story to your boss?”

“She said I was jealous of his brilliance.”

“Rachel’s a naïve idiot. She lied, then she appeared at a function on his arm! How dumb does she think your boss is? If Martin can’t see through that, then he deserves to lose you.”

“Life’s not that simple,” she whispered.

“Stay?” Cas hadn’t intended to start with this, but he could feel her retreating by the second.I can’t lose you. He was scared. “Stay here with me?”

“Anna’s going to rent the apartment.” Her voice sounded far away.

“They know us. We wouldn’t need references.” Cas was racing toward a precipice ... he could see it in his head, but couldn’t stop himself.

“You planned to live on your business premises. You can’t afford the rent on this place.”

“We could stay. We could share.”

“I can’t.” Tears leaked from the corner of her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Cas flinched. “I thought we were in this together.”

She reached out a hand to him, then pulled it back. “I can’t afford to rent this apartment with you.”

“You mean you don’t want to.” Despair dug its claws into him.

“I mean Jackson Smithers can do anything he likes.” She dropped onto the sofa, rocking herself backward and forward. Shock?

“You’re not making sense.” Cas started to panic. Bent almost double on the sofa, she looked broken. Beatriz was strong. Why wasn’t she fighting this? “Resign. Get another job.”

“I can’t.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because I can’t afford to lose a single week’s wages.”

“You always make sense. You’re not making sense now.” Dread slithered through him. “Talk to me, Beatriz.”

“The bulk of my wages goes directly to the bank to pay my parents’ mortgage.”

“Why?” He was struggling to connect the dots. Every week? All her money? And the weight of her dilemma cut through him.

“Because Papá’s never fully recovered from his industrial accident. Mamá’s worried half to death. They need to stop work, and they won’t as long as they have a mortgage.” She rushed her answer.

“They asked?” He’d met her parents. They wouldn’t ask that.

“I offered,” she whispered, dropping her head. “More than that. I promised.”

“How long?”

“Two more years.”

The gut punch was immediate. “That’s a lot of money.”

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