Without removing his gaze from mine, he tossed the apple in the air, caught it, tossed it again. “And where is that?”
My stomach quietly growled. “It’s none of your business.”
“Well, I quite possibly saved your life. I believe in conserving energy, so I want to make sure you don’t waste mine. I asked you last night where you live, and you told me you’re homeless. Frankly, right now, you look like someone just stole your last dollar.”
My mouth opened in shock.
He placed the apple back in the basket and crossed his arms again. Was he flexing in front of me?
“Why do you care?” I demanded.
It was a moment before he answered. “Do you really have somewhere to go?”
The mild, sympathetic tone did it. I felt my throat close and my eyes tear up. I could tell he was uncomfortable
with my sudden display.
He jumped off the butcher block and went to open the fridge.
“Here,” he said quietly, handing me a bottled water.
I tried to say thank you, but my throat was too tight. When I looked up, he was backing away from me.
“You know you stink, right?”
I laughed. I laughed so hard that I was almost hyperventilating. Then I started crying. I couldn’t stop if I wanted to.
To keep myself from falling on my face, I squatted where I was and sat on the floor. My crying turned to ugly hiccup-sobbing. He must have thought I was insane.
“Why don’t you stay here for a bit until you find an apartment?”
Shocked, I could only stare up at him.
He shrugged. “I know when someone is at the end of their rope,” he added.
At the end of their rope? I glared at him, quickly wiping at my tears. I hated looking up at someone when I talked to them so I got back on my feet, struggling to pull my dress down. He was still taller, which made me angrier.
“Listen, pal, I may be homeless, but I am not accepting your charity.”
We both fell silent.
The sound of the water bottle crinkling in my hand was followed by that of a steady stream of water spilling onto the floor.
Embarrassed, I closed my eyes. When I heard him clear his throat, I tried to calm my breathing by counting to ten before opening my eyes.
His eyebrows were raised as if he was waiting for me to say something. When I didn’t, he continued.
“Where else will you go? A homeless shelter? Listen.” He raised his index finger. “One, I live by myself, so you’ll only have the pleasure of my company. Two”—he raised a second finger—“you’re certainly safer here than at a shelter. And three”—he raised a third finger—“ding, ding, ding! You can stay here for free.”
I narrowed my eyes. It all sounded too good to be true. “Why are you helping me?” Life had beaten me enough that I knew nothing came free.
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Then he shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Live with Caleb Lockhart. In this huge place. For free. My only other options were the shelter or live on the streets. “I’m not going to be your prostitute.”
He looked insulted. “Do you really think I need one? Woman, have you seen this body? Besides,” he added, grinning, “when you decide to sleep with me, you’ll be the one paying me.”
Wow. The size of his ego must constantly give him a headache. I gave him a disgusted look and pretended to yawn. “Everything that’s coming out of your mouth sounds interesting. I don’t know why I keep yawning.”