Page 94 of Stolen By the Billionaire
The crotch of his trousers constricted him, and he turned back toward the dresser and yanked his pant leg, trying to adjust the thing. “Looks too big.”
“Yeah, but I’m not picky. It’s just because it’s an emergency.”
“That’s the smallest I have.”
“These don’t look like they would fit you.”
“Probably not. I take an extra-large in shirts and an extra-long in trousers.”
“Why do you have all these clothes? Are these someone’s—” Sarah looked up at him with widened eyes and blinked. “I shouldn’t pry.”
Well, he couldn’t have her thinking that. It was inaccurate. “I keep a selection of clothes on hand in case someone needs emergency housing for a few nights, often until I can find in-patient care for them.”
The soldiers who had needed a place to stay had always been men, but that didn’t mean everyone who needed emergency housing would be male.
Blaze continued, “I should stock some clothes in women’s sizes. That was an oversight. I will rectify that.”
“That must be weird, people just dropping by like that. People don’t just drop by for a few nights out on my farm,” she said, a hint of a smile lifting one corner of her mouth.
He nodded. Nothing more needed to be said.
“Is that what you do for a living now?” she asked, her eyebrows puckering together in confusion again. “Are you a counselor or a psychiatrist or something?”
He shook his head. “I volunteer with an emergency hotline for vets. The VA provides ongoing training.”
“So, you’re a therapist.”
“I don’t have a degree. I listen and try to help. For legal purposes, my title is ‘wellness coach.’”
She tilted her head. “But you said it’s an emergency hotline. If you don’t have a degree in psychology or something, how do you help them?”
“I listen.”
“Have you thought about hurting yourself?”
“Absolutely not,” he barked.
His shout echoed off the tile in the small bathroom.
The wariness in Sarah’s eyes chastised him. “Never mind that I asked. Okay, but what do you do for a living?”
Blaze looked at his bare feet on the wooden floor, his deep calluses atrophying because he wore trainers instead of marching in his boots for days or weeks. He admitted, “I don’t do anything for a living.”
Her dark eyes narrowed at him. “Really? But you—I shouldn’t pry.”
“Speak freely.”
“I—okay—this is a really nice house.”
He nodded. It was a statement of fact and didn’t need a response.
“Do you get a pension or something from the military?”
“I don’t draw retired pay. I resigned my commission before I completed my twenty years.”
She flapped her hands and glanced at the walls and wide mirror in the bathroom. “Then how do you live in this house?”
“I bought it.”
