Chapter 89

I licked my lips. “Will you have a problem breaking your lease?”

He grinned, the corner of his mouth tilting, resulting in an expression that made me want to strip off his clothes and rub myself all over his body. “No.”

We got boxes from the basement—it was dark even with the lights on, and cavernous, and it always gave me the creeps; I never went down there unless someone accompanied me—and went to Wills’s apartment to get him packed up. He didn’t have much, barely more than Vince when he’d first moved into the attic apartment. His laptop computer, a suitcase and duffel bag, some books and CDs, those photos, his clothes, a cedar chest that held a tool belt, steel-toed work boots, a hardhat with “Twink” stenciled across the front, and that pair of 501 jeans.

“Twink, babe?”

“I had a thing for Hostess Twinkies when I was younger.”

“Uh-huh.”

By the end of the day he was moved in. He was living with me.