Live for Me by Erin McCarthy Page B

I asked him.
    Something about my answer seemed to stump him. He opened his mouth, then shut it again. But finally he reached out, his thumb running over my lip. “And that is how you survived foster care,” he said hoarsely. “Just so you know, I think your worth is priceless.”
    I reached for him, instinctively, watching to touch him, my hand rising to capture his. My heart was full and I saw admiration there, a genuine, deep affection for me.
    But he dropped his hand before I could clasp him. “So priceless in fact, I don’t think I can afford you.”
    “What is that supposed to mean?” I whispered, disappointed.
    “Hold out for that good guy, Tiff.” He squatted down and fished a handful of bullets out of the box. He loaded his rifle with sharp, angry movements. “That’s all it means. Nothing more. Nothing less.”
    He didn’t think he was good enough for me.
    The very thought stunned me. Made me incapable of speech.
    It was laughable, insane, ludicrous. I wanted to step forward, to tell him that he needed to know his own worth, too. That he wasn’t a bad guy, or selfish, or greedy. That he was generous and thoughtful. Surly, yes. Bad, no.
    But before I could gather my thoughts, he said, “Stand back.”
    I did.
    He aimed and fired.
    The shot shattered the quiet of the afternoon.
    I winced instinctively.
    And that was the end of our conversation.
    When he paused, it was clear he’d hit the target dead center.
    When it was my turn, my aim was high.

Chapter Eight
    Come upstairs. I want you to hear something.
    I paused in the middle of chopping vegetables for a salad as I read the text from Devin. He was in his studio again, like he had been every day for the last few weeks since he’d arrived at Richfield. The days had settled into a pattern. I would wake up and he’d already be in the kitchen, drinking coffee and working, sometimes on his computer, sometimes on conference calls. He would wave me over and he would set everything aside while we sipped coffee and talked for twenty minutes or so. Then he would go upstairs to his studio, emerging only for lunch. By dinnertime, he was done and we would go for a driving lesson, then I would cook for him, with him acting as sous chef. At night we talked, played chess, made a fire.
    I waited for him to get bored with me and go back to New York or at least start going out in town, eschewing my company for random strangers in restaurants or bars. But he didn’t.
    He sought me out, repeatedly. I hung back and waited and every day, he inserted his presence into my day. He dominated and demanded my attention and I craved it. He made me feel like I mattered to his day. That I brought him some sort of pleasure with my conversation, my cooking, my existence. His moods became darker as the days went by, and I knew that he had made his mind up that he couldn’t be more than a friend to me. That he had decided I needed to wait for a guy my own age, with some ten page laundry list of virtues that I was pretty sure didn’t exist in one man outside of Jesus.
    But I was willing to wait. To bide my time until Devin either returned to the city or he realized that more than friendship was brewing between us. We finished each other’s sentences. We sparred and discussed and challenged each other. We were deeply and undeniably attracted to each other, our casual touches too lengthy, too charged, to be fully innocent.
    We were living together, yet we weren’t together. We had a nebulous unexplainable relationship that wasn’t a relationship, exactly. We weren’t boss-employee. We crossed too many lines for that. We weren’t romantically involved, technically. Yet we said things you didn’t and shouldn’t say to someone when your relationship was purely platonic. We were friends, as much as you can be when someone is paying you and they waffle between treating you like a little buddy and someone they wanted to devour with their mouth. I knew Devin saw me as an equal but then