Page 73 of Trailer Park Billionaire

I study him, waiting for him to turn it into a joke, but he doesn’t.

“Why not?”

Ben shrugs. “Well, I guess I’ve always been moving a lot. With my family when I was younger, and now with myjob. Makes it hard to really get to know someone.”

It’s not the whole story. I can feel it in the space between his words, in the way his jaw tenses slightly. There’s something else there, something raw—but I don’t press. I know better than most that some wounds aren’t meant to be poked at.

“Well,” I say instead, turning back to the canvas, “maybe one day you’ll settle down.”

Ben laughs weakly. “You mean, like, in prison?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I guess, I wouldn’t be too surprised if you do end up in some sort of dungeon or another.”

He chuckles again, his eyes drifting from the remains of the frame in his hands to the crook of my neck. He swallows. “Tellme about that. Your time behind bars. I assume it was a lot less sexy than that suggestive joke?”

I huff. “Oh, yeah. Nothing sexy about using the bathroom next to someone you’re forced to bunk with.”

“Do you regret doing what you did?” he asks, serious now, his eyes searching mine.

“I regret it, yes. It was dumb. I mean, I do think the fucking St. Clairs needed to be taught a lesson—but maybe burning down their house was a step too far, you know?”

“Did anyone get hurt?” he asks carefully.

I sigh, the knot in my stomach that had loosened over the past couple of days tightening again. “I made sure the house was empty. But their kid came home once the thing was already on fire. Apparently, he tried to put out the flames, got burned. Luckily, it wasn’t life-threatening. But yeah. He didn’t deserve that. It’s the thing I feel by far the worst about. I wrote letters, from prison, to apologize, but never heard back. Which is fair, I guess.”

The weight of my words lingers between us, reminding me of another reason why I don’t share stuff with other people. Because why would anyone want to be friends with someone capable of doing something like that?

“You must think I’m a monster,” I mutter when Ben doesn’t respond right away.

He shakes his head. “No, not at all. You were just a kid in an impossible situation. Losing your parents, your grandpa getting locked up, foster care. Honestly, I’m surprised you turned out this well-adjusted,” he says seriously.

“Ha!” I snort. “You mean with my obsessive need to adhere to my schedule? And my tragic work-life balance? And the fact that my only friend is my dead grandpa?”

“Hey now!” Ben pretends to be offended. “That’s not fair. You also have a dashing partner… in crime who is very much alive. I think that counts for something.”

I nod, a careful grin on my face. “Indeed. All the well-adjusted people have partners in crime these days.”

“Glad we agree on that,” he replies, and then starts cleaning up while I return to prepping the canvas.

We talk a little, work in comforting silence, and focus on our goal. At least that’s what I do… when I’m not distracted by his annoying smell, his soothing warmth, or the way he’s constantly just a little too close behind me.

“Our schedule says it’s time for bed,” he, eventually, whispers into my ear a little too seductively.

For a second, neither of us moves. The air between us goes electric, thick with something sharp and wanting. My eyes flick over my shoulder to his mouth, just for a second.

I swallow. “Right. Wouldn’t want to fall behind.”

I’m not sure what Ben is thinking at that moment, but rather than closing the distance, rather than turning the moment into something reckless and irreversible (like he does in my imagination), he steps back.

“Sleep well, Panda,” he says, his voice lower now, rougher. “I’ll be outside if you need me.”

And then he’s gone. Which should feel like a relief. Instead, I just feel like I might combust spontaneously. Or I might orgasm spontaneously. Both seem like a distinct possibility right now.

But instead of wallowing in this torturous feeling, I get ready for bed. And once I’m done, like the horny idiot I am, I don’t go to sleep—I go over to my window, from where I have a clear line of sight to Ben. Ben, who’s moving around outside, running a hand through his hair, appearing restless. Ben, who looks kind of adorable all riled up and frazzled. Ben, who turns—and spots me right away.

Oh.

Shit.