Page 4 of Pick One
“Don’t be modest. I’m truly grateful that you’re here. I was getting kind of desperate,” I admitted. “Hey, what’s your name, by the way? Jace didn’t mention it—shocking, right?—and I figure the epic poem I write about your heroism will be more compelling if I’m not referring to you as Snap-Back-Hat-Guy.” I grinned and joked, “The rhyming would be tricky.”
“Oh.” He touched the hat on his head, which made his sweatshirt ride up just enough for me to see the dark hair on his stomach.Yum. “It’s John?” He cleared his throat and said more decisively, “John Curran.”
“John Curran,” I repeated. Possibly the most boring name ever. Way too boring for such a beautiful, sweet man. But it was simple and honest, and I liked it. “Well, at least I’ll have no trouble spelling it. Alrighty, then. Shall we go collect my couch?”
“Your couch,” he repeated flatly, like he’d never heard the words before. He squinted at me slightly, but his extreme confusion did nothing to make him less attractive.
“Jesus, Jace.” I rolled my eyes to the ceiling. Of course my brother hadn’t given the man pertinent details. Probably hadn’t told him the right time to show up, either. “You didn’t even know what you were going to be moving today, did you?”
John shook his head slowly… almost warily. “I definitely didn’t.”
“It’s a couch—the world’s best couch, by the by—and we need to move it into my new apartment.” I pointed upstairs. “I was able to haul the rest of my stuff over here with my little Nissan earlier this afternoon, but the sofa is over at my old apartment—my ex-boyfriend’s apartment—so we need to… Oh, shit.”
If Jace hadn’t told this guy what he was moving…
I laid a hand on his arm. “Please tell me you at least have a truck or something?” I begged. “Because if you don’t…”
“I… I do, actually.” He looked down at the keys in his hand, then at my arm on his sleeve, then back at me, like he was coming to a decision. He nodded firmly. “I can help you get your couch if you want.”
Sweet relief pulsed through me. “I very much want.” I swept a hand toward the door. “Lead the way.”
* * *
Martin wasat his most Martin that afternoon, answering the door wearing a silky dressing gown I’d never seen before and carrying an honest-to-Godmartini, like some kind of alternate-universe Hugh Hefner… if Hugh were a balding, thirty-something pension administrator who didn’t comprehend fine furnishings or the concept of monogamy.
“Teagan,” he chided before I could get a word in. “I’ve been worried sick. You ran off the other day and never said when you’d be home, and you didn’t answer my texts until this morning when you said you were coming by.Tsk. We need to talk.”
I looked back at John—still wearing his hat, his sweatshirt, his unfortunate khakis, and a sweet, steady expression. Then I looked at the man in front of me—the appearance of wealth he was trying to project, the carefully styled hair that barely concealed his receding hairline, the way he started out the conversation with accusations that would make me react or likelyoverreact so he could gain the upper hand—and I had a moment right there in that hall.
You know the part of Cinderella where she’s running down the steps and suddenly all the magical glamour drops away and she’s staring at a couple of rats and a pumpkin?
Martin was that pumpkin. Okay… maybe he was the rats. And all I could think was “Holy shit. Fern was right.”
And right on the heels of that, “Holy shit. I’ve been such a fool.”
If I’d lived with this man for months and I’d fucked up so badly, how could I trust myself anymore?
This realization was so distressing that I took a step backward, forgetting John was there. He put a hand on my back, so strong and warm that I felt it through my T-shirt. I took a shuddering breath and brushed past Martin into the apartment. “I have nothing to say to you. John, this is the couch.”
“Where’d you hire this oaf?” Martin demanded.
“He didn’t.” John folded his arms over his chest. “I volunteered.”
Martin pursed his lips like his martini was sour and set the glass down with a click.
“Well, well.” He looked John up and down. “I can just imagine how Teagan plans to pay you for your services. Well, lucky you. He’s talented. But I warn you… he’s effort.”
My jaw had dropped to the floor as I gaped at him, so hurt and… okay, yes,mortifiedthat he’d said something like that in front of John… that for once in my life I was literally speechless.
John stepped in front of me, blocking Martin from my view, and folded his arms over his chest—he wasn’t overtly threatening, but he was way taller than Martin, and he made that perfectly clear. “By talented, I assume you mean that Teagan makes a mean sourdough?”
I clapped a hand over my mouth to restrain a wholly inappropriate, hysterical giggle.
I heard the rustle of fake silk as Martin shifted backward.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Martin said.
I poked John in the back. “Martin doesn’t eat carbohydrates,” I told him. “I’ve never baked for him. My talents would have been wasted.”
