Keeping my eyes down, I ask, “My max budget, or how much I can afford while still eating and putting gas in my car?”
“How much could you pay a month that you could still save money for your own place and feel comfortable with all your other expenses?” Ryan puts our plates and forks on the drying rack next to the sink.
“A thousand?” It’s a question, not a statement. That’s stretching it while having only seven months to save, but I could eat ramen packets and survive.
He raises a questioning brow. “My sister said you were having financial issues. You could find somewhere else to live for a thousand. That’s the whole point to you being here, to save money.”
Fourteen thousand. I have seven months to save fourteen thousand dollars and that’s if everything goes smoothly.
I knew fertility treatments were expensive, and I was aware that they were most likely in my future. What I hadn’t planned was that I would be paying out of pocket to get my eggs frozen at age twenty-seven after my life-long love and who I thought was going to be the father of my children decided to sleep with someone else.
My doctor warned me we should’ve started trying years ago, but Alex wasn’t ready. I don’t blame him because I wasn’t ready either, but he continually made it a point to dangle the whole “I want to start trying soon” thing in front of me. Which is why I didn’t seek out egg freezing sooner while I was still on my parents’ insurance. No, he had to wait until I was a year too old to be covered by them to put his dick in someone else.
Diminished Ovarian Reserve—such a formal phrase to say my ovaries are aging more rapidly than the rest of my body.
Even though my body is in its late twenties, my eggs are on the brink of retirement thanks to my mother’s genetic line. If I want to keep the option of biological children someday, I need to do something about it yesterday, and seeing as I can’t afford to take time off work, my plan is to save, save, save until next summer—hockey’s off-season.
Ryan grabs a notepad and pen from a drawer. I’d assume this is his “junk drawer” but the guy has pens lined in a row and every little thing has its specific place. Psychopath.
He writes Blue’s temporary leasing agreement on the top of the pad of paper.
He underlines temporary twice.
I don’t know what’s more annoying—the blatant reminder he doesn’t want me here or the nickname I earned over breakfast.
He writes his first line item—Rent.
“How do you feel about five hundred bucks a month?” He hovers the pen over the page as he leans on his forearms.
I try my very best not to stare at the bulging veins running down his muscular arms as I go over his offer, but he sure is distracting.
Five-hundred bucks a month? That’s nowhere near enough to charge me. That might not even cover the extra utilities I’ll be charging to his bills.
Maybe he really does want me here and this is his way to get me to stay? I can afford five-hundred bucks a month.
“Only…” he continues while my mind is still reeling over the possible hidden meaning behind his words. “If you take another five-hundred dollars a month and put it in a savings account for your own place.”
And never mind. He’s going to charge me next to nothing in order for me to leave as soon as possible. It’s generous nonetheless and I’m no martyr. If he wants to pay my way, I’ll gladly let him. He clearly has the money. Little does he know that though my savings account will be filled, it’ll be allocated in a different way.
“Deal.”
His eyes lighten, the skin slightly creasing around the corners, but he doesn’t fully smile. “You’re not going to fight me on it? You’re not going to offer to pay me more?”
“Nope.” I pop my shoulders. “I think you can afford to house me just fine, Ryan Shay.”
His attention falls back to the pad of paper and the corner of his lips lift as he writes $500 + $500 in savings next to Rent.
Next line item—Rules.
Here we go. “Let me guess. Quiet hours start at 8:30 PM, and you conduct a small human sacrifice before every home game that no one can find out about.”
“Cute.”
I lean my cheek on my palm with a smile. “You keep saying that, Shay, and I might get a big head over here.”
“No guests,” he says as he writes the same thing.
“I can’t have friends over?”
“Stevie can come over.”
I lightly laugh in disbelief.
“And Zanders,” he offers as if he’s giving me more options. “A couple of my teammates too.”
My brows lift excitedly. “An apartment full of NBA boys? Sign me up.”
“Not for you.”
“You’re no fun.”
“I don’t want strangers here,” he continues. “So, no overnight guests.”
“You’re really no fun. Are you jealous already, Ryan? We’ve only lived together for twelve hours, and you can’t stand to see another man with me. Is that it?”
He motions with his index finger, circling in my general direction. “This thing works for you? You get through life this way?”
“The charming thing, you mean? Twenty-seven years, baby.”
Another light lift of his lips. Well, if that’s not the most addicting thing I’ve ever seen.
“I’m not cockblocking you. Do what you want,” he says, and the words don’t sit well with me. I liked the idea of him being my over-possessive roommate who couldn’t stand another man to be near me because he wanted me for himself.
“Just don’t do it here,” he continues. “I don’t want strangers here. Not to sound like that guy, but I can’t go anywhere without being recognized. My apartment is my safe place, my only true moment of privacy, and I’m not willing to lose that. So no guests. This is non-negotiable.”
“I get it,” I brush him off. “I work with a professional hockey team, remember? I understand the spotlight thing.”
“No, you don’t get it. This is different. More extreme than anything the guys on the Raptors have experienced.”
A moment of silence lingers between us as he holds my stare, unyielding. I hadn’t done my typical internet stalking session on Ryan Shay, but maybe I should’ve. There seems to be more that he’s trying to say without coming off like a cocky pro-athlete and now I wish I understood the unspoken words.
When I met Stevie’s brother six months ago, I had to keep myself from searching his name on the internet. He was unquestionably the most attractive man I’d laid eyes on, but more than that, he didn’t like me. And that bugged me more than I’m willing to admit. I didn’t want to know about him because he didn’t want to know about me.
“No guests,” I agree.
“Promise?”
Apparently, it’s a big deal for him to allow a total stranger into his home. I didn’t realize. I’d taken this living situation lightly, but clearly, he hadn’t.
I sit up straight, hoping he can see how serious I’m taking it now. “I promise.”
His chest deflates as he writes No guests next to Rules.
He follows that up with No friends. No food. No fun, referencing a line from my terrible third impression.