He hesitates a second before stepping forward. “What’s all this?”
“Rentals. In Montreal.”
Richie jerks away and paces to the other side of the kitchen. “So now you’re finding me a place to live too? Fuck”—his voice breaks—“anyone would think you’re trying to get rid of me.”
“No. God, no. These are for us.”
He freezes. I have no idea how to read the way his back muscles have bunched up, but I hurry to keep talking.