Page 77 of Trailer Park Billionaire

He eyes me suspiciously. “I think you skipped a step there.”

“Did I? Are we having an amuse-bouche? Fancy.”

Ben chuckles and closes the door behind him. “You understood what I said, yes?”

“You. Couch. Sleeping. Got it.” I give him the finger guns and immediately wish I could be cool just once. “Is it because?—”

“I saw the knife in your bag, and the one on your nightstand. And the chair you tried to wedge under your door knob. I know you’re afraid, but I don’t want you to be.” He runs a hand over his dark stubble. “So you’re not against it? No need to fight before dinner?”

“Wait, is that the step I missed? Does that mean no amuse-bouche?”

Ben laughs, obviously relieved.

I was going to ask him to stay here anyway. For his sake, of course. So he wouldn’t have to sleep in his driver’s seat anymore. But I suppose it doesn’t hurt having him close by. Just in case.

“Sleeping here will save you a lot of time and effort, since you won’t have to keep breaking in. Anyway, what’s for dinner?”

After eating, I get back to working on our forgery. Ben has set up the printer for my reference images, and while I paint, I explainmy process to him in great detail. He sits beside me, listening intently, while he replaces the screen on my phone.

“So,” I say as I clean my brushes, a little tired of talking shop, and eager to quench my thirst for more information about him, “last time it came up, it didn’t seem like your favorite topic, but… what happened with your family?”

Ben looks to the ground, then rubs his brow, and lets out a sigh. “It’s a long story…”

“A long story why you don’t talk to your parents anymore? Do you have any siblings?”

His eyes shift to me. He nods, then lets his gaze wander back to the painting. “A brother. Older.”

I check the photo and dab somebrownultimate color onto the canvas. “You don’t talk to him either?”

“We run into each other now and then. But that’s about it. We are very different in a lot of ways.”

“And not so different in a few others?” I hold the palette of paint between us so he doesn’t have to see my curious eyes.

He lets out a grunt—the same kind as this morning. This is probably far enough. I shouldn’t push him to tell me things he isn’t comfortable sharing.

“Oh, by the way,” I say, too gleefully, trying to shift the mood, “there was something I forgot to tell you. It’s probably nothing… it’s definitely nothing, but last night I heard?—”

A noise. There it is again. That scraping sound, like nails on a chalkboard. Right outside.

“Yup, that’s what I heard.”

Ben jumps up immediately. Furiously, he whispers, “You heard a noise, and you didn’t get me?” Right away, his hands are on me, and he drags me into the bedroom, pushing me onto the bed. The paintbrush I’m still holding smears dirty splotches onto my sweatshirt. A second later, the door slides shut, and he’s gone. I rush over and press my ear against the wood, trying tohear what’s going on. It sounds like Ben is unlocking the front door and?—

Nothing. At least for a few seconds.

Then I hear his voice again: “It’s okay. You can come out.”

Cautiously, I reach for the handle, step into the living room, and find Ben holding our raccoon baby. Although, calling him a baby seems a little misleading, considering his size.

Ben smiles brightly and is already reaching for a box of cookies in the kitchen. He hands Reuben one of the treats and, before I can say no, places him gently into my arms.

“Hold him for a moment. I’ll be right back.” Silently, Ben darts toward the exit. “Tell him not to run away again.”

I just nod and look at Reuben, who returns the look and stuffs the entire cookie into his left cheek.

“Do you need another one for the other side?” I ask, hoping more cookies will prevent the wild animal from mauling me. Although he doesn’t seem remotely in a mauling mood. He’s more in a ‘stocking up for winter’ sort of spirit.

Ben returns a minute or two later carrying a dog bed.