There’s that chuckle again. It’s deep and warm and it makes my stomach fill with butterflies. “Old enough I pass for a grandpa, apparently,” he says, turning to look at me, a small smile gracing his lips.
I bite my lip and wait, curious.
“I’m forty-six,” he says, and I whistle.
“Damn, even older than I thought,” I joke, and he gives me the finger, making me laugh. His smile widens and I think it might be the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. Other than his ass, of course. Shit, am I perving over a guy old enough to be my dad? Well, my dad was never this good-looking, that’s for damn sure. This guy, whatever-his-name-is could be a model. Maybe he is a model. I should ask.
“What do you do?” I say as he brings me a mug filled with hot coffee and places cream and sugar in front of me.
He laughs. “Your turn for twenty questions, I see.”
I shrug. “I feel I graced your house with my presence, and you owe me.”
“I see.” His blue eyes twinkle. Fuck, are we flirting? He can’t possibly be flirting with me. A) I’m like barely an adult, and two, I’m a homeless fucking whore. There’s no way he’d be interested in me.
“I’ll make you a deal,” he says. “I’ll answer anything you want, but in return you have to answer one of my questions.”
I’m not sure I like this, but it only seems fair. As long as he doesn’t get too personal. “Okay,” I say.
“What’s your name?”
“As first questions go, that's kind of cliche, don’t you think? A bit on the nose? A little boring?”
He chuckles and shakes his head. “It’s the thing I want to know the most.”
My gaze lingers on him for a second before I say, “Charlie. My name is Charlie.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Is that your real name?” he inquires, mirth in his voice.
“Yes.” I can’t help but laugh a little. God, he’s cute. “Want me to prove it? I think it might be on the label of my underwear.”
He laughs and shakes his head again as he sips his coffee. I noticed he didn’t put any sugar in it, or cream. Eww. How can anyone drink their coffee black? Is there a point? As far as I’m concerned the whole point of coffee is for the creamer. “No thanks,” he says. “I believe you.”
“Your turn to answer my question,” I remind him. “What do you do?”
“Construction.” Ooh, that explains the excellent shape he’s in. Those biceps are glorious, let me just say.
“How old are you?” he asks, and I’m not surprised. I knew it was coming sooner or later.
“Nineteen,” I say, then follow up with, “What’s your name?”
“Paul,” he tells me. “Paul Richards.”
I nod. He looks like a Paul.
“So, what are you gonna let me do since you didn’t let me cook breakfast?” I’m ready to be done with the questions. It might lead to things I’m not ready to discuss.
He looks at me for a second and then around at the messy kitchen. “You can do clean up. Unload and load the dishwasher, and wash the pans.”
I nod and stand, and I’m pretty extra sure I catch his eyes roaming over my bare legs again. Why does it not bother me?
“If you want to shower there’s towels and washcloths in the hall closet and you can use my soap and shampoo. It’s pretty nice stuff. I have some extra razors if you need one.”
I grimace because I can’t believe he’s had to handle being in the vicinity of my stench for as long as he has. “Yeah, I think I’ll do that,” I say. “Thanks.”
“Of course. I’ll put your clothes in your room for you. They should be done in the dryer by now.”
Shit, he washed my shitty clothes, too? Fuck, why does he have to be sweet as hell and fucking gorgeous? It’s gonna suck to leave here. I’ve only been in this man’s home for approximately sixteen hours, but I already feel more seen and heard, more loved and accepted and cared for than I ever felt living under my parents’ roof.
