* * * *
That proved to be much easier said than done. Two days into her new living situation and Caitlyn was ready to strangle her roommate. She came home from a morning class at the shop to find him sprawled out on her couch, still in a T-shirt and boxers he’d clearly slept in, his hair a mess of bedhead.
And he looked incredible.
He was typing away at a laptop on the coffee table and was surrounded by dirty dishes and stacks of notepads and books, which she assumed were part of his work. She paused in the entryway, and when he looked up, she knew she still wore of look of disgust. She was far from a neat freak, but it was disconcerting to see someone else’s clutter take over her space. Not to mention the disaster he’d made of the bathroom. She was half convinced this guy had lived his life with a maid to pick up after him—but then, if this guy could afford maid service, what the hell was he doing subletting at her rundown place?
“Welcome back.” He glanced up from his computer. “Something wrong?”
Yes. From the moment he’d moved in, he hadn’t left the apartment. He was always there, in her way, every time she turned around.
“No. Just… Don’t you have an office to go to?”
He shook his head and went back to typing. “I typically work from home. I’m more efficient if I’m home alone.”
“That would have been nice to mention in your application,” Caitlyn muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing.” You heard me. But she let it drop—the only thing more uncomfortable than his presence would be a confrontation.
As she went about her routine over the next few days, she assumed he would at least leave the apartment in the evenings to go out with friends. But every night he plopped down next to her on the couch where she was knitting and watched TV alongside her. To her horror, she soon found that he wasn’t the type who merely watched TV. Oh no, her charming houseguest had to comment on every little thing that occurred on the screen as though television was an interactive sport.
During one commercial break, he’d turned to her with a sudden, avid interest in her knitting project that she had been diligently working on for the past two nights that they’d been camped out on the couch. It was a delicate lace shawl made with fine yarn and tiny needles and she had to knit every stitch with great care.
“Who’s that for?” he asked.
“One of my students commissioned it. It’s for her daughter’s wedding.”
He studied it for some time, inspecting the edges with a surprising gentleness. “It’s beautiful.”
A lightness filled her chest. The compliment made her far happier than it should have. But it was always nice to have her work appreciated. “Thank you.”
And then he had to go and ruin the moment. “How much is she paying you?”
Her hands stopped their monotonous task so she could look up at him. “I beg your pardon?”
He was turned toward her with an interest that was alarming. No male ever had taken such an interest in her knitting. “How much are you charging?”
“A hundred dollars and the cost of supplies,” she said and then immediately regretted it. Why did he even care? It was none of his business.
He was staring at her in horror now. “You’re kidding me.”
“She’s a very sweet old lady,” Caitlyn started to explain.
He cut her off. “I don’t think she’s sweet at all. The old crony is taking advantage of you.”
Caitlyn gasped. Her students loved her. “She is not. She’s—”
“How many hours would you say this project is going to take?”
She clamped her lips shut and focused on the row she was working on.
“I’ve watched you working on this for ten hours, at least, and it looks like you’ve got a long way to go.”
Caitlyn ignored him, but her brain automatically started calculating how many more hours she would most likely spend on this project, and the number was disconcerting. Especially if you divided it by a hundred dollars.
Ben leaned back on the couch and crossed his arms. “Do you realize that taking into account the electricity you’re using and that cup of tea you’re sipping, you’re actually taking a loss on this project?”
Caitlyn pressed her lips together, wishing she had some sort of comeback that would put this infuriating man in his place.
But he was right.
“Shut up and watch your show,” she grumbled. She moved farther onto her side of the couch with a sniff.
Don’t you have any friends? Don’t you have a life? She wanted to ask. But she didn’t, of course. That would be entirely too rude and more than a little hypocritical seeing that she was camped out on the couch right beside him.
Instead she settled on, “Have you found a permanent place to live yet?”
One side of his mouth turned up in a knowing grin. He knew exactly what she was hinting at. You are not welcome here. The day his month-long sublet contract ended, he would be out the door.
“I’m not looking for a place.” He popped a handful of mixed nuts into his mouth.
Dread replaced annoyance. Oh my God, he was the guest who would never leave. Maybe that’s what he did. He just hopped from one apartment to the next until he drove the tenant so crazy that they kicked him out. That was it! That explained why his references gave such glowing reviews. It was a conspiracy. It was—
“I already own a place,” he said.
Caitlyn’s mouth fell open as she stared at him, the shawl forgotten in her hands. “What?”
“I bought a condo on the Upper East Side, but it’s undergoing renovations. I’m just waiting for them to finish. It was supposed to be done weeks ago, but you know how it goes.”
Caitlyn nodded. Yeah, sure, she knew how it went. Oh the troubles of being a homeowner in New York City. His woes were right up there with the plight of the migrant worker.
“So why are you staying here?” she asked, looking around her tiny, old apartment with its drafty windows and peeling paint. “Shouldn’t you be staying at a hotel or something? I know you make a lot of money and—”
He looked over at her in surprised amusement. “And just how do you know that I make a lot of money?”
“You told me.” That night, went without saying. She shifted on the couch and turned back to her knitting.
“I said that?” His face was the picture of dismay. At her pointed look, he added, “I thought we agreed to forgive and forget. I know I have.”
She laughed at that. “All is forgiven and forgotten, but you did tell me that you make a lot of money.”
His look was comically chagrined. “I’m a right bastard.”
“Agreed. But that doesn’t answer the question of why someone who has so much money—”
“I may make a lot of money, but I also lose a lot of money.”
She blinked in surprise at the candor in his tone. He shrugged. “It’s the nature of the game. But that’s what I like about high stakes finance—no risk, no reward.”
“So it’s