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Chapter Four

Ethan

I opted for the burger. With a garden salad instead of fries. I almost ordered a side of beer-battered onion rings, but then I remembered I wasn’t paying for this meal. Nope. Kingston had spent five minutes in the van explaining how he was feeding me since obviously missing a meal had made me a little loopy.

Something about climbing trees.

To me, the urge to climb tall, beautiful oak trees was perfectly rational. All those sturdy branches. Hundred-or-more-year-old trees. An absolute delight for me.

Tarah had tempered my enthusiasm by explaining that property insurance probably wouldn’t cover any accident. And that she wouldn’t have thought of such things before becoming a teacher and learning how to care for ten-year-olds. Well, almost a teacher. I just admired her for being willing to do such a tough job.

I’d considered teaching. But that would’ve meant university for at least six years. My mind didn’t work that way. I’d managed a two-year program in business. Lots of math, which my brain didn’t like either. The creative stuff like marketing and public relations had been far more interesting for me.

Putting my learning to use was tough. Instead, I’d flitted from gig to gig, always keeping myself busy.

“How’s your food tasting?” The server, with a nametag that read Sarabeth offered us a wide smile. She had the prettiest bright-blue eyes.

They reminded me of Tarah’s.

Kingston’s mouth was full of strawberry waffles—with extra whipped cream—so I offered a smile back. “Everything’s perfect. This place is charming.” The walls of the diner were covered in posters. Pinup girls, ’50s muscle cars, as well as other Canadiana things. Very Mission City, I was discovering.

Sarabeth waved, then headed back to the front of the restaurant.

Kingston grunted.

I grinned. “I swear they time it so you’ve got your mouth full and all you can do is nod and give a thumbs-up.”

He scowled. With Sarabeth’s permission, we occupied one of the bigger booths, and Kingston had his leg lying along it, with him squished against the wall because he was so tall. His leg was long, and he didn’t want it hanging over the edge where someone might jostle it.

I would’ve been okay with taking him straight home, but he insisted I needed a proper meal.

He probably hadn’t anticipated me slathering peanut butter on my burger instead of ketchup.

What could I say? I liked what I liked, and judgmental, grumpy locksmiths could just lump it.

Which just made me happier.

The grumpier he got, the more I smiled. Not to annoy him, of course, but to make him…more confused.

Gran always said to meet dourness with kindness. That the more I smiled, the greater my impact on the world.

I’d taken that advice with me to the six-month contract I’d had at the tax department, answering phone calls. The more distressed the caller, the more I tried to smile. That hadn’t always worked. When the contract ended, I didn’t try to get another one. Too depressing.

“The food is delicious.” Kingston wiped his lips. “The whipped cream is exceptional.”

“High praise, coming from you.”

He scowled again.

I giggled.

“From the man who puts peanut butter on hamburgers. And carries around packages of peanuts in his pocket. What’s with you and nuts?” He soaked a piece of waffle in a huge puddle of Québec maple syrup.

So much sugar. Gross .

“Nuts are healthy for you.” I pointed to his plate. “Do you really need so much?”

He held up the confection, with syrup dripping. “But of course.” Then he shoved it into his mouth.

His gorgeous sexy mouth.

Which I totally shouldn’t have been noticing.

But did.

Peter hadn’t said my new boss was gay. And why would he, even if he knew?

Me? Well, I sort of wore it. In my clothes, mostly. Although I’d yet to show him my rainbow bow tie and my suspenders. I was saving those for a special occasion. I nibbled a piece of burger, then swallowed. “Okay, so what do you do in your spare time? Got a wife? Girlfriend?” I bit the bullet. “A boyfriend? Husband?”

He arched an eyebrow at me. “Not subtle at all, Ethan.”

I shrugged. “So, I’m nosy. Peter said you’d need help with everything, and I guess I’m curious if I’m catering to just you or you and another person. And, like, I totally don’t mind helping out. I’m great with kids—but I don’t think you have kids. And how about pets? Oh, do you have a dog waiting for you at home? Of course you don’t—you never would’ve brought me here if you had a dog waiting at home. And, like, do you often come out this far? Like do you go even farther? Like Chilliwack? Or Hope? Oh, do you go up to Whistler? Lots of rich people live in Whistler. I mean, you don’t just help rich people, I assume. You said you didn’t. Didn’t you? But, like, rich people need help a lot, apparently, if the last twenty-four hours in your life are any indication.” I leaned in. “Peter Erickson, Ed Markham, and some rich business tycoon with a playroom.” I winked.

He blinked. “You knew?”

I rolled my eyes. “I wasn’t born yesterday. I do know about BDSM. That couple? They seem so…normal…”

“Because they are normal. People who engage in BDSM are, for the most part, quite normal.”

“You know a lot of them?” I bounced in my seat. “Can I meet more of them? Oh, do you know who else you’re helping this week, or do you just see who texts you next? Because I have to admit that’s a pretty cool way to live. On the edge, right? Never sure where the next assignment will be. Never knowing who you’ll see that day. That’s…awesome.”

He blinked again. “Do you happen to have an off switch?”

“Ha! Good one.” I scooped up my massive burger, eyed it, met Kingston’s gaze, then tried to figure out the best way to bite the mammoth thing without spilling half of it down my shirt. “So, husband, wife, or something in between?” I bit.

He let out a sigh. “I trust you won’t talk while you eat—”

I nodded. Tempted, but would restrain myself.

“No husband, wife, boyfriend, or girlfriend. And before you ask, no BDSM either.” He glanced around, but we were surrounded by empty booths.

The closest filled one to us held a man, a woman, and two girls who appeared to be about four years old. Everyone was laughing and smiling, and the scene reminded me of when Gran used to take me out to White Spot on Pirate Day. I’d had the same level of excitement as the girls I observed.

Kingston, clearly having realized we were quite alone, held my gaze. “You’re nosy. I have to say I don’t appreciate that. Peter recommended you, though.”

“Peter’s paying me.” I winced. “I was not supposed to say that.”

He arched that damn eyebrow at me again. “Well, that answers the question of how much I’m paying you and whether I need to add you to my nonexistent payroll account.”

“I wasn’t supposed to tell you. I mean, if you tried to pay me, Peter said to refuse.” I scratched my nose. “He also said, uh, to have you call him if that didn’t work.”

Kingston rolled his eyes. “You are a challenge.”

“Well, that’s the point, isn’t it? You need someone who will stand up to you and force you to do what you’re told.” I pointed to his ankle. “You weren’t even going to ask to elevate it, even though you’re supposed to.”

He jutted his chin out.

“Right. So you’re planning to do everything yourself while you should be focused on taking care of that ankle until you feel better. It feels better. Whatever. Anyway, let’s be clear. Peter’s paying me. Does he feel guilty about what happened? Of course he does. Was it a freak accident? Of course it was. Now, to make him feel better, you’re going to accept the help and be gracious.”

“But—”

I held up my hand.

He blew out a breath.

I did a little victory dance in my head. “You’ve got me for six weeks. So make use of me. Take up a hobby while I take care of you. Watch all those streaming shows and movies you planned to watch but never had the time. Keep the ankle elevated while I do everything you need. Just be a good boy.”

Another arch of the eyebrow.

I waved my hand. “You know what I mean.”

“No.” He eyed his food. “I’m not good at accepting help. I’ve been doing everything on my own for all of my adult life. My parents were independent, and they raised me to be self-sufficient. I have enough money in the bank to pay you—”

I started to speak.

This time, he waved his hand. “But I understand about both guilt and graciousness. Peter feels guilt. I can assuage that guilt by being gracious. Okay, so that’s pretty straightforward. You, however, are a variable I simply hadn’t anticipated.” He shoved a forkful of waffle into his mouth.

His first mistake .

“Right. Perfect. So we’re in agreement. Alignment. A meeting of the minds.”

He nodded, all while chewing.

“So I’m assuming in that nice house of yours that you have a spare bedroom.”

His eyes widened, but he couldn’t speak. Not while he had food in his mouth.

“I’m going to move in. I think I have an out-of-town gig in a few weeks, but I can bow out if you’re not self-sufficient and mobile by then. But no rushing it just to get rid of me. The doctor said six weeks. So you’re going to take six weeks. Some sprains are worse than breaks—like yours is. You’re going to do everything I tell you to do. And yes, Peter explained, in great detail, everything the doctor told you.”

Kingston waved his fork then swallowed.

“Yeah, you’re probably going to regret letting him stay with you during that part of the appointment. But Peter told me, I wrote it down, and now we’re about to be best friends.” I winked. Then bit into the best burger I’d ever tasted.

“Do I get a say in this?”

I held a hand before my mouth. “Do you want to upset one of the biggest movie stars on the planet?”

Again, Kingston blinked. Almost like he simply hadn’t framed the problem that way before. And I could see why. Kingston didn’t judge his clients by how much money they did or didn’t have—he just did his job.

I liked that about him.

That also meant, however, that he hadn’t considered the ramifications of not accepting my help. So I’d enlighten him. “If you don’t allow me to help, then Peter plans to get someone to do the cleaning and cooking, someone to take care of the outside maintenance and leaf raking, and someone to do snow removal, should that be an issue.” I scrunched my nose. “And anyone else who might be needed. So you can accept just one person disrupting your routine or you can deal with multiple people. And you still need to get around—unless you plan to take six weeks off work. He’d prefer that, but suspected you wouldn’t be that smart.”

He frowned. But didn’t try to speak.

“Right. So you can take taxis all over town. Or Peter can hire you a driver who just sits around all day waiting to help you. Will that person be as discreet as me? I’ve got secrets, Kingston. I can keep yours as well.” I took another bite of burger.

He pursed his lips. “You plan to do all that?”

Again, I held my hand in front of my mouth. “Do you do all those things yourself?”

He appeared to consider.

I swallowed. “Right. And you work full-time. So you focus on work, and I’ll keep your house running. Sounds like a pretty good deal to me.”

“I’m going to regret this. Something tells me that I’m really going to regret this.”

An hour later, after I’d consumed another cup of coffee and he’d polished off a chocolate lava cake, I pointed the van toward Vancouver, and we were off. I chatted about my childhood, the mild autumn we’d had, as well as the Canucks’ chance of winning the Stanley Cup this year.

Spoiler alert—less than zero.

Kingston stared moodily out his side window. At least he wasn’t a side-seat driver who second-guessed everything I did.

When I mentioned that, somewhere in my monologue, he pointed out he’d accepted his fate.

I considered asking what that meant. But then decided I probably didn’t want to know.

We stopped at my place so I could grab my packed suitcase—I hadn’t wanted to carry it on the bus this morning—then we were on our way. Dusk had already fallen when I pulled into his driveway. I activated the remote for the garage door, then drove in. I cut the engine, then hit the button for the door to close. “I love technology. It isn’t always my friend, but I do love it.”

He grunted.

“Well, I doubt the original house came with the remote.”

“Given the house is one hundred years old? That’s a safe bet.” He unbuckled his seatbelt.

I did the same and hurried over to his side. I handed him the crutches, and he grunted.

In what I assumed was gratitude. Hard to tell with him.

I inserted the plug into the van so it could recharge. “Okay, does anything from the van need to come inside?”

He shook his head.

“Does anything from inside have to come out? Are you going to replace the deadbolt with inventory you have, or do we need to stop by a store to buy another one tomorrow?”

He blinked.

I glared back. “Just because I don’t have a regular job doesn’t mean I don’t understand the principles of just-in-time inventory management and supply-chain logistics.”

Again with the blinking.

God, does he think I’m incapable of doing anything? Of comprehending how business might operate? Huh. Possibly not. Should I tell him about my education? Nope, better not. Didn’t want to blow his mind all at once.

He gestured to the door with his chin. “Take off your shoes and socks before you enter the house. You’re going to wash your feet and dry them first before you go any farther than the mudroom.”

Now came my turn to blink. “Come again?”

“You heard me. No one wears socks or shoes in my house. Feet must be clean. And if you’re truly here to help, you should know I sweep the floors once a day and wash them every third day.”

I squinted. “But you don’t allow shoes in the house? How can the floors get that dirty? Oh, do you have a cat and she sheds? Gran used to have this Himalayan cat. Lovely lap cat. Lazy as all get-out. She shedded something fierce. Gran had me vacuuming all the time. Which I didn’t mind, because I liked Whiskers. Was sad when she passed. Wasn’t entirely unhappy when Gran didn’t replace her.”

“I don’t have a cat.” He moved toward the door. “Are we clear about the rules?”

“Uh, sure.” I pointed to his feet. “You realize, if we follow your rules, that I’m going to have to wash your feet as well.”

He cocked his head as if in contemplation. As if this hadn’t actually occurred to him. “Well… I’ll make an exception for myself.”

“And how are you going to shower? Or a bath might be better. Except how are you going to get out of the tub? I guess you’re going to need my help, and—”

“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“Right. You must be tired. Are you in pain? Oh, I should’ve been asking that all along. Do you need painkillers? Like anti-inflammatories or something? Because your ankle looks swollen again. Should I be worried? Like, if the cast is on too tight then you might lose circulation, and you might develop a clot or necrosis or something like that and they’d have to amputate your leg to save your life, and that sounds pretty horrific, but, like, if that’s the only way to—”

“Ethan.” Cold, quiet, and clearly calculated.

“Uh, yeah?”

“You’re going to take your shoes off, and you’re going to help me take mine off. We’re going to go inside. You’re going to wash and dry your feet. Then I’m going to sit on the sofa, and you’re not going to talk until after the national news is finished. Do you think you can do that?

Uh, crap.

I talk too much.

I always talk too much.

“Sure. But, first, do you need me to go grocery shopping, or start laundry, or…you said sweep the floors, right? Can you at least point me to where the broom is? Then I’ll be quiet. I mean, unless I think it’s an emergency. Like if the smoke detector goes off, then I’m going to stay something—”

“If the smoke detector goes off, then I’ll hear it as well. I am perfectly capable of hearing everything. Including your incessant blathering.”

Don't be hurt. He’s in pain. He’s grumpy. He doesn’t intend to be mean to me. He’s just…insensitive sometimes. Not with clients, though. Just with me.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“No, that’s okay.” I held up my hand. “I am a little much. Let me grab my suitcase so that I don’t have to come back for it. Then, yeah, I’ll help you take your shoes and socks off, and everything will be okay.

Because it has to be.