“Hey, I’m giving you my bed, aren’t I?” He places his hand over his heart. “I’d say that’s a damn good gentleman. I could be making you sleep on the pullout, which isn’t nearly as comfortable as my Tempur-Pedic.”

“I can take the pullout.” I hate inconveniencing people.

“No, you’ll take my bed.” He shakes his head. “There’s no changing my mind.”

Dropping my overnight bag onto the carpet, I size up his bedroom. “This is cute.”

It screams I played lacrosse, come from money, and haven’t been here since my high school years with its plaid wallpaper, black furniture, and blue bedding.

He raises a brow. “Cute?”

“Definitely an adolescent teen’s bedroom.”

He advances the few steps to the closet and gathers sheets and a blanket. “No judging. I didn’t stay here much growing up.” He stops, a flash of regret on his features, and scratches his scruffy cheek. “I didn’t spend much time with my family back then, so my mother didn’t bother renovating rooms that weren’t being used.”

“Why didn’t you hang out with your family?”

Even though my family could have a two-part special on Dr. Phil, we’re close. My mother held mandatory dinners, and I regularly came home from college on the weekends. My parents’ marriage might’ve been messy, but my mother made sure to build a strong support system within my siblings.

I stroll around the bedroom, as if I were in a museum, and inspect everything. Grabbing a framed photo, I hold it up. “Is this your dad?”

His face is unreadable as he nods and stares at the photo. “Yeah.”

I eye the man’s features. “He and Archer are spitting images of each other.”

“Yeah, they were nearly twins.”

Unlike Lincoln, Archer has broad shoulders, thick hair that reaches his neck, and a wide face. Lincoln is slimmer with short hair, and while they both sport facial hair, Lincoln’s is cleaner cut. The similarities between his father and him are limited. While Archer took after their father, Lincoln resembles more of his mother.

I gulp, setting the photo down, and snag another of him in a tuxedo. His arm is wrapped around a girl, who is sporting a frilly, gaudy-as-hell pink dress.

“Girlfriend?” I jerk my head toward the photo.

“Prom date.”

“Did you bang her?”

He cracks a smile. “None of your business.”

“Secrets don’t make friends, Callahan, and if I recall correctly, that’s what you keep saying we are. Friends. So … let a friend know.”

He shakes his head. “It was prom. I was a stupid teenager. So, yes.”

I love that he’s honest with me. After what happened with Quinton, honesty and trust are my biggest turn-ons. Quinton did a lot of fucked-up things to me, and the biggest takeaway from it was, trust is an important component of a relationship.

Well, behind not dating a criminal.