Page 33 of So This Is War
She chuckles and places her purse on the coffee table, then pulls out a notebook and a pen. “Maybe we can brainstorm later, but for now, why don’t you show me around and tell me what I can do for you.”
Right, what she can do for me.
Focus, Posey.
If you want to mentally win the award, you have to act like the boss who’d win it.
But for the record, I’d like it to be known that everything I’m going to ask her to do are tasks I can do for myself. Things I’ve been doing for years with no problem. I want it to be noted that any wild or obscene shit I tell Wylie to do should not be held against me.
I’m merely a pawn in the battle between Coach Wood and his daughter.
And despite being a man’s man with perfectly manscaped and lotioned balls, I clearly have no idea how to say . . . no.
“Well, as you can see, this is my apartment.” I stretch out my arms as if showing off the place...even though she’s been here for the past few minutes.
She presses her hand to her chest. “Is it? Wow, I had no idea.”
“Cheeky,” I say as I continue. “This is the main living space, which is, uh . . . off limits for you. So no lounging around on this camel-colored couch.” I point at the couch. “And, uh, no watching TV on this gigantic screen. And, uh . . . no, uh, no rolling around on the area rug.”
“Ooo, really? I was really hoping to get my rolling done in here, but I can find a new place.” She makes a note in her notebook, then looks up at me. “Where should I do my morning staring? Should I keep that to my own space, or am I allowed to come in here and stare at the wall?”
I work my jaw to the side, seeing how easy it is for her to make fun of me. “Your own space will suffice.”
“Noted.” She marks something on her notepad again.
“But you are allowed in here for certain reasons.”
“Like restocking the lotion,” she offers.
“Yes,” I say tersely. “And cleaning, restocking the groceries, and delivering whatever I might need. Other than that, you must stay in your own space.”
“Got it. Don’t bother Mr. Posey.”
“Levi,” I say.
“Don’t bother Levi. Shouldn’t be a problem. I can manage whatever space you offer up. Like I said, it’s a real help.”
“Sure, yeah. Should I show you that space now?”
“That would be great. That way I know what I’m working with.”
I gesture toward the open-concept kitchen, and we both walk that way.
I hate this.
I hate how uncomfortable this is. Clearly, she’s trying to be grateful for the opportunity, and I’m preparing to rain down hell on her day. It’s the last fucking thing I want to do, yet here I am, about to introduce her to a hole in the wall that she can sleep in despite my lavish apartment.
And you’re probably wondering, did I spruce it up? Did I make it as inviting as I did when Blakely was moving into Halsey’s place? The answer is no. I didn’t even wipe down one cobweb. Not even sure what the hell is going on in the hole because the door hasn’t been opened in years. But I kept it untouched to help dissociate myself. Makes me feel like I’m taking on the boss role rather than the caretaker.
“The entrance to your room is right back here,” I say, leading her past the open kitchen, past the pantry off to the left, and down a narrow hallway toward a door at the very end. “Not sure the condition of the place because I’ve never used it, so, I’m sorry in advance.” I open the door and switch on a light, highlighting the small room, less than two hundred square feet. There’s a twin bed off to the right with no mattress—huh, she’s going to need one of those—and a nightstand with one dilapidateddrawer. There’s one overhead light in the room, one of those traditional boob lights that every tract home has installed in a hallway. Just past the bed is a door leading to the bathroom, where you can wash your hands and sit on the toilet at the same time. I know this because I joked about it when I first viewed the apartment. There’s also a stand-up shower that I couldn’t really fit in, but she will do just fine. A separate entrance from the outside is at the other end of the room.
It’s much bleaker than I remember.
Maybe a touch spooky.
And definitely not up to my man-boy standards.
“Oh wow, this is bigger than I thought it was going to be,” she says, moving into the space with hopeful eyes, which feels surprising. Her father is a world-class coach. She grew up with money and has lived on the higher end of life, yet she can be positive about the space I’m presenting her? How?
