Jesse almost spit out his drink. “To who?”
“Evie.”
“The old widow with the blue house?”
“Jess, I’m getting married.”
“Keep your voice down.”
He leaned back, grinning. “Damon, that’s not a marriage. That’s just shelter with benefits.”
“It’s a roof, Jesse,” I muttered.
“It could all belong to you if you wait long enough.”
I should have left. Instead, I stared at my beer and said, “I’m tired, Jesse. I’m tired of being cold. I’m tired of collection calls. I’m tired of smelling like gas station soap.”
“So you just found a better plan.”
Continue on the next page:
