Page 49 of Boyfriend of the Hour

I opened my mouth to argue again, but Nathan wasn’t listening. He removed his glasses and rubbed his face, almost like he was trying to get rid of a migraine. When he put them back on, I was still holding out the envelope. And he still didn’t take it.

“What if…what if you paid me back another way?” he said.

Immediately, I straightened. It wasn’t like I’d never heardthatkind of proposition before. I was cute, often strapped for cash, and plenty of people in this city were willing to take advantage of that. More than once, I’d been offered parts by way of the casting couch.

I’d never accepted any of them, and I wasn’t going to start now.

Goddammit. I knew it. Iknewthere had to be a catch. A dumb, dirty, totally predictable one. Were all men just shit? Was that the bottom line?

“Look, I know I went home with your roommate and have some rough plans to work in a strip club, but I’m really not that kind of girl,” I said. “I’m sorry you got the wrong idea.”

I started toward the door with the intention of pushing past him. Nathan, however, stopped me with a hand on my shoulder.

“That kind of—what are you talking—oh! Joni, no, that’s not what I meant.”

I crossed my arms and stared at the hand on my shoulder. “Oh, really? Look, I know I kissed you in Tom’s office and everything, but that was a moment of weakness, not an offer to trade.”

Nathan snatched it away like it was burned. “Jesus, of course it wasn’t. I wasn’t insinuating that you could trade sex for housing. I would never, ever suggest that.”

“Well, then, what was that offer?” I demanded. “Because it sure sounded that way.”

He sighed, leaned back against the doorframe, and shoved his hands through his hair. It made the curls bounce, and I resisted the urge to put my fingers in them too. I loved his hair, and secretly, I hoped he never tamed it with gel or wax or whatever else men used. It was the only thing about him that was at all messy. And annoyingly, it made him that much more perfect.

“Just say it,” he muttered, more to himself than to me.

“Say what?” I prodded.

He sighed. “I—I need help with something too.”

“Oh, and what’s that? Getting your dick sucked?”

He reared like he’d been slapped. “Jesus, no. I need help with my social skills. As you’ve pointed out, they are fucking terrible.”

After spitting out the words, Nathan grimaced like he’d tasted something bad. It was the first truly intense expression I’d seen besides the grin. And all of that had happened within an hour. I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

“I’ve been diagnosed with social pragmatic communication disorder,” he said quickly.

I frowned. “What is that? I’ve never heard of it.”

“Most people haven’t. It’s sort of a cousin to autism. It only made the DSM-5 when I was just out of medical school. Prior to that, my family believed I had Asperger’s Syndrome.”

“And that’s a type of autism, right?”

Nathan nodded. “But I don’t have a lot of the qualities that would qualify me for an ASD diagnosis. So, they changed mine when Asperger’s was removed from the DSM-5, and SPCD was put in.” He shook his head. “Honestly, the label itself isn’t as important as what it means. I struggle with social communication. I often miss basic social cues, jokes, idioms, or tone of voice. It stymies a lot of my relationships and sometimes makes socializing difficult.”

“So, when you said you couldn’t insinuate…you really meant it?” I wondered.

Nathan nodded. “That’s correct. Or at least not without considerable forethought.”

“No wonder you talk like a textbook.”

He didn’t laugh.

I tipped my head. “That was a joke.”

Nathan just blinked. “I gathered.”

“Then you should laugh.”