unless they can afford to look after them. I can’t even afford breakfast tomorrow.”
“You can’t?”
Shit! I didn’t mean to admit to that. I’m not one to go running around telling everyone my problems. “Forget I said that.”
But Patrick stood, reaching out a hand in my direction until he found my shoulder. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing, man. Payday is tomorrow and I’ll be getting paid then. It’s cool.”
He turned me toward him. We were standing with less than a foot between us. We were approximately the same height, Patrick an inch taller, so our mouths weren’t that far apart. I focused momentarily on his sightless eyes before dropping my gaze to his lips. Man, oh man.
“You’re lying.” Mr. Stanford was back, and my easy dinner companion gone.
“So?”
“Tell me, can you afford breakfast tomorrow, Jake?”
I had read somewhere that pleading the fifth meant you actually were guilty of the crime but didn’t wish to incriminate yourself by saying it out loud. “I’ll be fine.”
Patrick’s expression didn’t change. He moved his hand up my neck and cupped my face in his palm. “You’re too thin. You will arrive here tomorrow at eight o’clock and make me breakfast again. Then you’ll sit and eat with me.” He finished his decree with a nod and stepped back to leave the room.
I shook my head at him and crossed my arms across my chest, ignoring the raging hard-on that had come from his simple touch. “Manners,” I growled.
He stopped, tilting his head to the side. “What?”
“Manners, Mr. Stanford, manners,” I said in exasperation. I hoped the Mr. Stanford title would prompt him.
It did. “Oh.” He cleared his throat. “ Please come and make me breakfast at eight o’clock tomorrow.”
I rolled my eyes. He’d put please in the sentence but it had still come out as a demand. I had watched enough chick flicks with my sisters to know my Victorian manners. I put on a falsetto voice and told him, “Thank you, Mr. Stanford. I would be ever so pleased to come to your humble abode tomorrow and partake of a meal with you.”
Chapter 7
I ARRIVED before the appointed time the following day. Patrick had shown me how to set the alarm for when someone was home as opposed to when you were leaving the house unattended. There were sensors on the windows and doors to secure the house as well as motion detectors inside. When Patrick was home alone he just activated the windows and doors. He told me he’d been robbed several times in the past, people thinking that a blind man was a soft target. This made me angry. A man shouldn’t be afraid in his own house.
Before I left the previous evening, I made sure Patrick was dosed with cold and flu tablets, had all the medicines he may’ve needed through the night, and was tucked into bed. I used a firm tone with him, telling him he wasn’t allowed to spread the Vicks cream over his chest until I was out of the house, because that was teasing.
He’d laughed, “And what will you do if I don’t wait?”
It felt curiously close to provocation. I rumbled deep in my chest and told him, “You may find yourself tackled on that bed and kissed senseless.”
He’d pulled the quilt up, snuggling down, and grinned. “Promises, promises.”
I left the house aroused and confused. Was stuffy Mr. Stanford flirting with his housekeeper? My dreams that night were broken and disjointed. Flashes of skin and sexual acts rolled into images of me broke and homeless, and then inexplicably a crying baby that I couldn’t reach, no matter how many times I tried to pick it up to comfort it.
Turning up early to work to make the guy breakfast and then eating his food was outside of my job description. It fell somewhere in between friendship and insanity. I turned the key in the lock and opened Patrick’s front door, turning the alarm off with trepidation. Gregor came running to say hello, and I gave him a big pat. He leaned against my legs and
“You can’t?”
Shit! I didn’t mean to admit to that. I’m not one to go running around telling everyone my problems. “Forget I said that.”
But Patrick stood, reaching out a hand in my direction until he found my shoulder. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing, man. Payday is tomorrow and I’ll be getting paid then. It’s cool.”
He turned me toward him. We were standing with less than a foot between us. We were approximately the same height, Patrick an inch taller, so our mouths weren’t that far apart. I focused momentarily on his sightless eyes before dropping my gaze to his lips. Man, oh man.
“You’re lying.” Mr. Stanford was back, and my easy dinner companion gone.
“So?”
“Tell me, can you afford breakfast tomorrow, Jake?”
I had read somewhere that pleading the fifth meant you actually were guilty of the crime but didn’t wish to incriminate yourself by saying it out loud. “I’ll be fine.”
Patrick’s expression didn’t change. He moved his hand up my neck and cupped my face in his palm. “You’re too thin. You will arrive here tomorrow at eight o’clock and make me breakfast again. Then you’ll sit and eat with me.” He finished his decree with a nod and stepped back to leave the room.
I shook my head at him and crossed my arms across my chest, ignoring the raging hard-on that had come from his simple touch. “Manners,” I growled.
He stopped, tilting his head to the side. “What?”
“Manners, Mr. Stanford, manners,” I said in exasperation. I hoped the Mr. Stanford title would prompt him.
It did. “Oh.” He cleared his throat. “ Please come and make me breakfast at eight o’clock tomorrow.”
I rolled my eyes. He’d put please in the sentence but it had still come out as a demand. I had watched enough chick flicks with my sisters to know my Victorian manners. I put on a falsetto voice and told him, “Thank you, Mr. Stanford. I would be ever so pleased to come to your humble abode tomorrow and partake of a meal with you.”
Chapter 7
I ARRIVED before the appointed time the following day. Patrick had shown me how to set the alarm for when someone was home as opposed to when you were leaving the house unattended. There were sensors on the windows and doors to secure the house as well as motion detectors inside. When Patrick was home alone he just activated the windows and doors. He told me he’d been robbed several times in the past, people thinking that a blind man was a soft target. This made me angry. A man shouldn’t be afraid in his own house.
Before I left the previous evening, I made sure Patrick was dosed with cold and flu tablets, had all the medicines he may’ve needed through the night, and was tucked into bed. I used a firm tone with him, telling him he wasn’t allowed to spread the Vicks cream over his chest until I was out of the house, because that was teasing.
He’d laughed, “And what will you do if I don’t wait?”
It felt curiously close to provocation. I rumbled deep in my chest and told him, “You may find yourself tackled on that bed and kissed senseless.”
He’d pulled the quilt up, snuggling down, and grinned. “Promises, promises.”
I left the house aroused and confused. Was stuffy Mr. Stanford flirting with his housekeeper? My dreams that night were broken and disjointed. Flashes of skin and sexual acts rolled into images of me broke and homeless, and then inexplicably a crying baby that I couldn’t reach, no matter how many times I tried to pick it up to comfort it.
Turning up early to work to make the guy breakfast and then eating his food was outside of my job description. It fell somewhere in between friendship and insanity. I turned the key in the lock and opened Patrick’s front door, turning the alarm off with trepidation. Gregor came running to say hello, and I gave him a big pat. He leaned against my legs and
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