Out On a Limb(49)

I nod, looking at the screen when I spot my name below the chart, highlighted in green. “So this number, six hundred and seventy-four, that’s mine?”

“Yeah,” Bo answers.

“That’s way too low for housing, food, bills, and everything else. There’s no way.”

“The percentages do not lie.”

“You obviously fudged the numbers!”

Bo laughs softly. “I swear I didn’t. I can go over the math with you, but the only expenses I left off were my car’s costs—because I wasn’t sure if you’d want to use it or not. But I could total that in too if you want to.”

“What do I do with all the extra money I make from the café? I should definitely contribute more, given how much I’ll have left over.”

“Well, I didn’t include your phone bill. Plus spending money, I guess. Another savings account. Invest some if you’d like.” He shrugs, as if to show his complete indifference. “And when you’re on parental leave, we’ll readjust the percentages of our income so it’s all still fair.”

I snatch the phone from him, scrolling until I see his number below mine. “Robert! Three thousand, nine hundred and ninety-two?” I sigh, glaring at him. “This is not even close to even.”

Bo’s eyebrows shoot up, widening his eyes. “Robert?” he asks, smirking. “I’m Robert now?”

“Well, Bo seems rather informal, considering you’re now my sugar daddy apparently!” I say, exasperated.

Bo rolls his eyes.

“I’m serious. I want this to feel fair.” I’ve been taken advantage of before. I know how it feels. How quickly you can begin to resent someone for everything they don’t do.

“It’s exactly fair, Fred. These numbers are proportional. It’s equity, not equality. Trust me. If it was solely up to me, your number would be a lot lower. Zero. Your income is about 15 percent of the household’s total, right? The expenses of having you live here only rose by an additional six hundred and thirty dollars, which your portion is covering. Now that doesn’t seem fair, considering you’re also growing my kid. This is me compromising.”

I whine, looking at the vast difference between our two numbers. I only make 15 percent of the household’s income. I’m not great at math, evidently, but that must put Bo’s income somewhere above one hundred thousand a year. I didn’t expect that to feel quite so mortifying. How little I have to offer.

“Bo, are you sure? Absolutely sure? This feels like too much.”

“Yes,” he nods desperately. “Entirely, definitely, absolutely, and whatever other adverb you’d like, sure.” His simple boyish grin levels me some. The way he tilts his head to catch my eyes, the way he nods as if he’s trying to get me to do the same. The way this all seems so… unimportant to him. As if he truly could not care less.

“I’m a mooch,” I say, sighing as we hold eye contact, our faces as close as our shoulders’ widths and height difference allow us to be.

“You’re not a mooch. You’re an asset.” He bumps his shoulder against mine, wrangling a smile out of me.

“An asset?” I ask, blinking up at him.

“Of course. You’ve definitely upped the house’s value by adding decor and giving this boring room a makeover. Not to mention you’re increasing the number of household members by 50 percent. Plus, you’re good for morale,” he teases with a wink.

“Morale, huh?”

“Yes. Your contribution to the vibe is worth at least a few hundred bucks.”

“Right.” I sigh, wrapping a hand around my grumbling stomach. Bo’s eyes follow my hand’s path and hold there, eyeing my belly with warm affection.

“Look, I know we don’t really know each other that well yet, and you don’t have reason to trust me with this, but I promise—this is fair. I can go over it with you some more, on my computer maybe, but regardless, this is as much money from you as I’m comfortable accepting. I’m very good at my job and typically honourable, but I did consider fudging the numbers when I saw your amount. I’d like to make things as easy as I can for you, Win. If I had it my way, you’d quit your job, put your feet up, and relax for the next few months.”

“You want a kept woman,” I tease.

“I certainly want to keep you.” He blanches as soon as the words leave his mouth. “I mean, I want to keep you happy. Here and happy and—”

“Okay,” I interrupt. “Fine. I agree with your arrangement, but if anything changes… if at any point you start resenting me or—”

“That’s impossible.”

“All right, but… if.”

His shoulders fall on a long exhale. “Thank you.”

“I don’t know why you’re thanking me. I’m rich now. I have an ice machine and an extra thousand bucks a month to play with.”

He laughs, his face pointed up at the ceiling. “Okay, big spender, now that we got that sorted… soup?” He stands, offering me his hand to follow.

I place my smaller hand in his and don’t miss how his eyes crease on either side when he wraps his full hand around it, covering it completely.



Not a chef, my ass. When I’m done with my third helping of Bo’s butternut squash soup—that he made from scratch, I might add—I begin cleaning up.