We ate, joking back and forth. The waffles were absolutely delicious, just as promised. I was scraping the last bit of berry from my plate when Callan’s phone buzzed. He checked it, then groaned.
“What is it?” I asked.
“My friends,” he said, typing a quick response. “The Three Assholes. They’re coming over for brunch in an hour.”
“Oh,” I said, tugging at the hem of the shirt. “I should definitely go, then.”
“Or,” he suggested, setting down his phone, “you could stay. Meet them properly. Not over the phone like before.”
“Really?”
“I’d like you to, yeah.”
Part of me wanted to retreat, to maintain the professional distance that had kept me safe for so long. But another part, a growing part, wanted to see where this could go.
“Okay,” I agreed, surprising myself. “But I can’t meet your friends dressed like this. I need actual clothes.”
“I could have some brought over,” he offered immediately. “Whatever you need.”
“That won’t be necessary. I have an emergency outfit in my bag,” I assured him, sliding off the barstool.
“Of course you do. Why am I not surprised?”
“Professional preparedness. Never know when you might need to change after a champagne fountain disaster or a drunk groomsman.”
“Or after being thoroughly debauched by a billionaire,” he added with a smirk that should have been irritating but somehow wasn’t.
“That category is a recent addition to my emergency protocols. Still working out the necessary supplies. So far I’ve listed hair ties, tooth brush, and possibly knee braces.”
He laughed. “I apologize for necessitating knee braces. Though not for the activities that led to their requirement.”
“Apology not accepted but appreciated,” I replied, heading toward where I’d left my bag. “I’ll be back looking like a professional human being rather than someone who got railed into next Tuesday and stole her bedmate’s clothes.”
“Spoilsport,” he called after me. “I like you in my clothes. Makes it easier to take them off you again later.”
I flipped him off over my shoulder, his laugh following me down the hallway.
True to my word, I emerged in the simple shift dress and flats I kept in my emergency bag, hair neatly styled, looking like someone who hadn’t spent the morning engaging in activities that would make a porn star blush.
“You clean up nice,” Callan observed, having donned a t-shirt to complement his sweatpants. “Though I preferred the ‘thoroughly fucked’ look.”
“Save that thought for when your friends aren’t about to arrive,” I suggested, helping him clear the breakfast dishes.
“They’ll be here soon,” he said, checking the time. “Fair warning: they will absolutely give me shit about this. About us. Just ignore them. It’s how they show affection.”
“I think I can handle it. I deal with drunk groomsmen and emotional mothers-of-the-bride for a living. Your friends can’t be worse than that.”
“You say that now,” he muttered, but he was smiling.
The doorbell rang, and Callan went to answer it. I took the opportunity to freshen up, heading to the bathroom to check that I looked suitably composed.
On my way back, I heard male voices from the living area. I was about to join them when I caught the sound of my name. I paused, just out of sight of the open doorway.
“So, you and Anica, huh?” a voice I didn’t have a name for asked. “Gotta say, didn’t see that coming.”
“She’s hot,” another voice commented. “Smart, too. And she clearly doesn’t take any of your shit. No wonder you’re into her.”
“It’s more than that,” Callan replied, his voice softer than usual. “She’s... different.”
