Half his lips curl upward. “Conversations usually work both ways, you know. Unless you’re crazy, then I suppose you only need one person.”
“You’re the one who suggested we get something to eat and talk. This is your proposal.”
His fork halts halfway to his mouth before he lowers it. “And you’re the one who doesn’t have anywhere else to go.”
I start to say something but resign to the fact he’s right. Sinking into my chair I blow out a reluctant breath. “Fair point.”
Garrick chuckles and sets down his utensils. “I’ll put it bluntly. I have a house with plenty of room for you to crash in until you’re back on your feet. But there are things I need to know before we make that commitment.”
Commitment. The word makes me nibble the inside of my cheek. How many times had I scared off potential boyfriends with that word? Hearing it from the man sitting across from me does things to me that I’d rather not think about.
Swallowing past the ball of nerves in my throat, I nod. “Okay…”
“Do you do drugs?”
Our waiter comes back in that very instant to refill my water, one brow quirked as if he’s also waiting for an answer. It isn’t until he leaves that I train my eyes at the man who asked the question. “No. Not unless you count my methotrexate and other prescriptions I have to take every day.”
He taps a finger against the table as he studies me like those blue orbs are lie detectors. “Would you take a drug test?”
It’s a bad time to take a sip of my water because I choke on it as I hear his inquiry. In a hoarse voice, I blurt, “You don’t believe me?”
He blinks.
Blotting my chin with a napkin to wipe up the water that escaped, I clear my throat. “I… If you really want me to, then yes.”
“It’s nothing personal,” he tells me. Seriousness crosses his face, any trace of flirtation and playfulness from before is now gone. “When you’re a recovering addict, anything can trigger you. It doesn’t matter how long you’ve been clean. It takes one bad decision to mess up any progress you’ve made. I refuse to do that to myself and to the people closest to me.”
I get it. He needs to be sure I won’t screw up his sobriety if we both agree to be temporary roommates. “Okay. I’ll do a drug test.”
There’s a moment of pause between us before he nods once. “You’ll need to try finding a job.”
Before I can stop myself, I wince. “Well, I actually have one.” I focus on cutting up the steak and stabbing a piece with my fork. “It doesn’t pay very well is all. I’ve been looking for extra work here and there, but nothing has caught my eye.”
“Any insurance?” he randomly asks.
My shoulders slump at one of the biggest hurdles I’ve dealt with. “Nope.”
“You need a new job then.”
I scoff, glancing up at him. “It’s not that easy. This place is saturated. Maybe if I wanted to be a fast-food worker or waitress I could find something, but that isn’t what I want to do.”
“Then what do you want to do?”
Stalling, I take a bite of my dinner and look around the restaurant he brought me to. It’s one of those fancy ones that has separate dining rooms. The one we’re in is spread out, more secluded, and I have a feeling he paid extra for the isolation.
“Rylee.”
Chewing with my mouth half-full I explain, “I don’t want my food to get cold.”
His eyes narrow knowingly, but he starts eating too. Even I know better than to believe he’ll let it go just like that. “What do you do?”
“I’m a writer.” I barely hear my own voice, but the star across from me must have super-sonic hearing.
“Like a screenwriter?”
I slowly shake my head.
“Books?”
My bottom lip is sucked into my mouth by my top two teeth.
He sighs. “Rylee, talk to me.”
I set down my fork and sit back in the chair until our eyes are locked. There’s no way he’s going to be okay with what I’m going to say, so I brace myself. “The reason this won’t work out is because I write for the L.A. Free Press. I get paid per article that they publish, and there’s a lot of competition in the tabloid world, as you know.”
I’m not surprised to be met by silence.
“Listen, I appreciate what you wanted to do for me. It’s more than anyone would have even considered, but—”
“Do you feel bad?” he cuts me off.
I blink a few times. “Excuse me?”
He regards me with a causal demeaner, and I don’t understand why he’s being so levelheaded. “Do you feel bad about what you write? What they publish?”
“I…” I swallow my words, considering the answer I give him for a few moments. “Yes. Well, maybe like 90% of the time I do.”
His head cocks. “Why do you do it?”
“It’s money.”
“At what cost?”
What does that even mean?
“I’m pretty good at reading people, Rylee. You seem like the type of person with strong morals. So why have a career that breaks your internal code so often.”
Again, I’m speechless, unable to conjure a better answer other than the financial benefits. It’s a job that used to keep a roof over my head, food in my stomach, and gas in my car. Even if I struggled with the outcome of what I wrote, it was something that supported me.
“It’s not all bad,” is what I come up with, but my answer is weak at best.
He shakes his head, an empty smile tilting the corners of his lips. Eating in contemplation with his eyes on his plate, I can’t help but wonder what’s going through his mind.
I’m half tempted to grab my bag and leave before he can tell me to, but I suck it up and wait it out instead. He told me I could go at any time, but something is urging me to stay.
He gestures toward my food.
