Page 27 of Bleacher Report
I’m not just moving in with a podcaster; I’m moving in with someone who’s had her own battles. Someone who might just understand what it means to fight for what she wants.
As I take a step further into her space, the tension from earlier begins to dissipate. Maybe this arrangement won’t be so bad after all.
Chapter Six
Peyton
The heat in my face still hasn’t cooled from his offer to let me ride him whenever I want.
Not even close.
I push off the wall, trying to pretend I’m not wildly affected, and motion toward the hallway. “Come on,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Let me show you around the rest of the house.”
Hunter falls into step behind me, a quiet chuckle under his breath that I pretend I don’t hear.
My townhouse isn’t big, but it’s mine. And for the next two months, it’s ours, apparently.
“This is the living room,” I say unnecessarily since we’re standing in it. “Kitchen’s through there. You can help yourself to anything.”
He grunts in acknowledgment, but I can feel his eyes following every detail—the shelves of books and tennis memorabilia of a life I don’t have anymore, the barely-there scent of vanilla honeysuckle candles I forgot to blow out before he got here.
I lead him down the short hallway, his duffel bag still in his hands and a backpack over his shoulder.
“That’s the hallway bathroom and the door across from it leads to the garage.” A garage too small to actually park a real life-size vehicle in it. Instead, a treadmill I bought last January sits unused there. “The spare bedroom’s my podcast studio.”
He peeks inside, raising a brow at the foam-padded walls, the mic setup, and my desk cluttered with notes and cables. “Professional setup. Looks like your contractor did a good job.”
“Thanks.” I don’t bother telling him how many late nights, maxed-out credit cards, and YouTube tutorials it took to turn that tiny room into something network-worthy. Or how much I’m counting on this room—and him—to help me land this syndication deal and recoup my expenses from this build.
We stop at the master bedroom, and I hesitate at the doorway. “And this is the main bedroom.”
Hunter steps inside, giving it the same slow, assessing glance he gave the rest of the place. “And the guest bedroom? Where’s that?”
“Guest bedroom?” I echo.
“For me to sleep,” he says, like it’s obvious.
Oh no.
I thought I’d been clear. Two bedrooms. One converted into a podcast studio. No spare bed.
“My guest room is my recording studio,” I say carefully. “There isn’t another room.”
He frowns, brows pulling together. “There’s not another bed in this house?”
“I have the couch…” I offer quickly, pointing back toward the living room.
Hunter’s mouth presses into a thin line. “That’s not going to work.”
Panic flickers in my chest. “Why not?”
“I can’t sleep on a couch and play at the level I need to. It’ll wreck my back. Throws off recovery after a long game and hard practices. Bad sleep screws everything up.”
He says it so simply, like this is a done deal. Like he’s about to walk out that door and leave this fake dating circus behind.
And I can’t blame him. I’d played at a professional level before my knee injury, though it feels like ages ago. Sleep and recovery are really important.
But I can’t let him leave. I need those two months of living expenses covered to give my bank account a break until I land this syndication deal. I can’t even think of my finances if the network doesn’t pick me.
