He's Not My Type (The Vancouver Agitators, #4)

by Meghan Quinn

“Is it a real offer?” she asks. My gaze snaps up to hers, and from the corner of my eye, I can see Posey’s obnoxious smile. The satisfaction that must be running through him right now. “Huh?” I ask, blanking completely. “The offer to stay at your place, is it real?” She can’t be serious. No way does she want to stay with me. She barely knows me. Sure, we’ve talked here and there, and I’ve told her she looked beautiful in her dress a couple of times. But stay with me? She might be desperate, but not that desperate. “It is,” Posey says. “He was telling me the other day that he wishes someone could water his bonsai tree when he’s on away trips. He’s always worried it will die when he’s gone.” What the fuck is a bonsai tree? “Don’t you have to spritz them with water gently?” she asks. “You would think,” Posey says, “but I believe Holmes lets his soak up its own water, don’t you?” Where the fuck does he come up with this shit? “Uh . . . yeah,” I answer like an idiot. “And he has the cutest name for his tree too, don’t you?” Posey asks me. Why is he doing this to me? Have I done something to hurt him? Have I somehow embarrassed him in a way that I’m unsure about? Is this revenge? “Sherman, right?” Silas asks, getting in on it. Oh, look who’s dead to me as well. Posey and Silas, both dead to me.