Page 169 of Elite Connections: an LGBTQ Romance Charity Anthology

Giselle Cromwell iseverything I wasn’t expecting.

Except a hot mess. She’s definitely that.

Unfortunately, she’s also sexy as hell too. Really short blonde hair that looks like it’s growing out of a shave, septum piercing, big blue eyes, and creamy tan skin I could easily spend the day running my tongue over. Considering how much of it she had on display, I was able to do a pretty thorough assessment. I still can’t believe she answered the door in an oversized hoodie and no pants.

I palm my forehead while I split the kids up into pairs to practice some of the moves we’ve been going over. They’re all nine and ten, which is my favorite age to train. Young enough that they’re not little smart-asses but old enough that they understand what the hell I’m saying.

As the chaos of a full class swells around me, my mind drifts back to Elle.

What I really should be doing is running fast in the other direction. I’d told myself meeting her was a dumb idea, and I was right.

Because meeting her helped me understand her, and understanding her helped me feel sorry for her, and my toxic fucking trait is that I can’t ignore a damsel in distress. Or a brother in distress, apparently.

“You look like you’d rather be anywhere else,” Tori, the other instructor, says.

“I’m good, just distracted.”

“Perfect mindset to have with a bunch of kids hitting and kicking each other.”

I laugh. “Sorry, I’ll pay attention.”

“Need me to cover your last class?”

Technically, I shouldn’t. I really, really shouldn’t. My wage covers everything, but I’m still living week to week, and every hour counts. Plus, I won’t be seeing any of the money from this job with Elle … maybe I can arm-wrestle Perry for it?

On the flip side, I’m not doing a great job of supervising these kids either.

“If it doesn’t put you out?”

“Let’s be real, it’s probably the safest option here.”

Well, I’m not about to argue with logic. We finish up with the kids, and then I change and peace out, crossing to my car—not a motorcycle, thanks, Elle—and jump in. I told her I’d be back today, and I’d planned to go before work, but I held off. My brain is going back and forth on whether I actually want to be doing this, and this morning, the hellsno side won out.

But I did tell her I’d be there, and the last thing I want is for the Elite people to contact Perry when so far it seems as though my brother is blissfully unaware. How he lives most of his life.

Elle’s apartment block is in the middle of the fanciest suburb in Seattle. She has a view over the park that I bet looks amazing from her balcony. It’s hard to wrap my head around living somewhere like this, when even before my parents died, we were solidly on the bottom rung of the middle class. We had always had food, shelter, clothes, but if something happened—like Dad’s car needing repairs—another credit card would appear to do the job.

We never had new furniture, and we certainly never had a view of a fucking park.

Even the elevator to take me to her floor is shiny and rich-looking. I’m not going to be bitter about it. She can’t help being rich any more than I can help being poor.

Probably.

I really need to drop the attitude. She needs a friend, and I’ll do the job I’m being paid to do, damn it.

Still have to force myself to reach out and knock though.

“Coming,” she shouts from inside.

I instinctively straighten my knit sweater, hating that I picked it out just to wear here. I’m a fucking idiot.

The door flies open, and it feels like all the air in the hall rushes past me to get through. Sunlight is pouring into the apartment from the enormous windows behind her, and Elle’s large smile looks genuine.

I hold up my hands. “Not asking for money or sick. Can I come in?”

Her bony hand covers her mouth as she laughs. “I can’t believe I said that.”

“Really? Because I’ve had exactly one ten-minute conversation with you, and I can.”

“Am I really so awful?” She steps aside so I can pass her, a sweet scent jamming up into my nostrils.

“Don’t think I used that word.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Take it as an ‘I’m sorry I’m a bit of a dick, but you’re also a bit of dick, so we’re going to have to figure out how to work with that.’”

She tilts her head, gazing at the ceiling. “Deal.”

“Right, well—” I reach the end of her hall, and my words disappear. The space looks completely different from yesterday. There are multiple paint tins, rollers and brushes, buckets full of sponges, and large canvas cloths.

“What’s all this?” I ask.

“It’s our project,” Elle says brusquely, moving to kneel beside the supplies.

“We’re painting.”

“Yes.”

“What?”

She shrugs, looking up at me with those big, pretty eyes. “Everything.”

“Meaning?”

“It’s so drab in here. So I thought, I could hire a new designer to come and make it more, well, me, or I could just do it myself.”

“And you know about painting, do you?”

“Oh, I have no clue.”

“Right.”

She tilts her head. “Do you?”

“None.” But still, I join her, kneeling beside it all. “Where did you want to start?”

“Well, the walls would probably be easiest. But then there’s this fabric paint for the couch. And new curtains to hang …”

I drag my eyes from a paint tin with a blue splotch on it to look around the room. Everything is so clean and simple and white. I like it. It’s calming. “I’ll help, but I want it on record that I think your place looks great.”

“Thank you. I think it looks like the inside of a psychiatric cell.”

I choke on a laugh. “All the white?”

“Precisely.”

“Maybe we need to give you a lesson on not believing everything you see in movies.” Although, what would I know? It’s not like I’ve ever visited one myself. “Okay, so what color do you want on the walls? Maybe I can start there.”

“All of them.”

I stop and glance over at her. “There’s, like, nine tins here.”

“Correct.”

“I think that one’s black.”

“Good, it’ll remind me of your hair. Start with that.”

“I’m 99.9 percent sure that I have no idea what’s happening here. Are you having a brain break? Should I call someone?”

Elle’s lips pinch, dimming the bright, bubbly person I’ve seen so far. “If you don’t want to help me, then go.”

“Did I say that? But all the colors? All of them? Really? You won’t even see any of them through the black.”

“Oh, I don’t mean one on top of each other. That’s ridiculous.”

“More ridiculous than …”

“I want a different color on each wall. Maybe black over there and blue on this one because it’s such a happy shade. Then in the kitchen on the window side could be yellow, and maybe pink on the cabinets …”

Oh my fucking god. She’s going to ruin the apartment. I almost want to call down to the front desk to ask if this is even allowed. I have no idea if she owns the place or not, but it’s beautiful the way it is. I can’t see any way possible where she doesn’t regret it completely.

But hey, this is her shit.

“So the vibe we’re going for is unicorn genocide. Just rainbow guts everywhere.”

“Sounds good to me.” Elle reaches for the fabric paint.

“What are you doing with that?”

“Painting the couch. I thought I could paint my friends on it.” She tries for a smug look that doesn’t feel all that genuine. “You know, all those ones I’m hiding.”

“I thought you didn’t know anything about painting?”

“I don’t. That’s what makes it so fun.”

Her batshittedness is contagious, and I let a laugh slip out. “Might as well get started, then.”

“Wait.” I’m expecting her to call the whole thing off when her hand rests on my forearm. She’s looking at my shirt, small crease between her eyebrows. “That’s a pretty top.”

“Ah, thank you …” I shift, trying to remind my dumb ass not to blush.

Her eyes meet mine. “You should change. You can borrow something of mine.”

My gaze unintentionally drops to her oversized gray hoodie and where the hem barely reaches her thigh. “Depends. Do you actually own a pair of pants?”

“Plenty. Come on.” Elle grasps my hand and drags me to my feet before pulling me down another hall. It’s been way too long since another woman touched me, and it’s making my skin buzz. If Elle’s request for a boyfriend is anything to go by, it’s highly likely she’s straight. And even if she wasn’t, she’s literally paying me. Perry might have been joking about this being a whore service, but I could see how easily those lines could be crossed.

I tug my hand from her and answer her confused look with a smile. “Lead the way.”

So she does. And I keep my eyeballs pointing toward the ceiling the whole time I follow.