Fitz speaks. “Actually, I didn’t—”

“Before we get into why you both want to live here, I should inform you of the ground rules to make sure it won’t change your mind. This is a party house.” His eyes land on me. “My business runs on social gatherings. If you complain about noise, you’re out. If you bring unnecessary drama or fighting into my place of residence, you’re out. If you don’t clean up after yourself, you’re out. If you don’t put out, you’re out.”

“What?” My jaw drops.

“I’m okay with all of that,” Fitz says.

I gape at him.

Jude puts up his hands. “It was a joke! Neither of you are my type.” He pauses to set the cat on the ground. The white furball rolls over and stretches out its paws in a sleepy yawn. “And I hope neither of you are allergic to cats because Mr. Bojangles ain’t going nowhere.”

“We don’t want to share a room,” Fitz says. “You have to pick one of us.” He glances over at me and then back at Jude. “And I would like to point out I was here first.”

“We were here at the same time. I need a place to stay too. And it’s his fault I’m homeless.” I jerk my thumb at Fitz.

“It is not my fault—” he starts.

“It is so your—”

“Listen. Babies.” Jude winces and rubs his head. “You can both sleep in the bed together. It will be tight quarters but as long as there’s no drama—”

“No!” Our voices tangle in the air, his indignant, mine disgusted.

“You have to choose one of us,” Fitz says.

“I can cook,” I say.

Fitz glares at me. “I give killer back rubs.”

“I give killer foot rubs.”

“You can’t copy me.”

“I just did.”

Jude frowns at us. “This is too much tension. I’ll find someone else for the room. Y’all can see yourselves out.” He waves a dismissive hand in our general direction.

“Well, hold on now,” Fitz says. “I’m sure we can come to some kind of arrangement.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” Jude taps a finger on the arm of the chair and regards us with sharp eyes. “I can only give one of you the room, and you both seem to want it real bad.” He leans his head back with a sigh and sticks the pipe in his mouth, blowing out some more bubbles. Mr. Bojangles swipes at one with a lazy paw.

“Wait.” The pipe leaves his mouth. “Beast!” I jump at the shout.

A large man emerges from the hallway. He has dark hair and shoulders so broad he has to turn sideways through the arched doorway into the living room. Where did he come from? He stands there staring at us with his broad face and nearly black eyes. He has to be nearly seven feet tall and wide as a firehouse.

“Write this down,” Jude tells him. “These two are fighting for the right to live in my kingdom. It’s a battle . . . to the death!”