To be honest, there had been a moment during my bimonthly waxing session when I’d considered it. I’d thought about how this batshit crazy idea would backfire and I’d end up broke, unemployed,andcharged with fraud. If not by the police, then definitely by the dean of the university associated with the sleep study. That spiral mindfuck, as I lay with my legs spread, was almost enough to make me bail.
But then the beauty technician really ripped that wax strip and I thought,Nothing is crazier than a grown-ass woman being convinced that it’s a good idea to regularly put molten hot wax on her vulva.
So when the message appeared on my phone from Xander making sure I was still coming tonight, I texted him saying I would rather rock up to the sleep study then be caught dead selling Wetzel’s Pretzels at the mall to my former students, andwhen he replied,Students?we both realized that after eleven years, we know sweet fuck-all about each other.
Enter: Getting to know Xander Miller.
I learned in our quick text session that Xander is a lawyer. A lawyer in the competitive, pressure-filled legal industry. A successful lawyer who has exceptional work ethic and perseverance. An exceptional lawyer with insane levels of lawyer stress. Xander’s also asinglelawyer. So, that’s why he’s here, because all that pressure makes it impossible to sleep or date. So he says.
And he learned that I am, well, not a high-powered anything. I’m a chemistry teacher currently without a teaching job. Xander issmart. And hot. And I’d be lying if I didn’t admit this combination has left me a little intimidated. Usually the guys on Bone It are, how do I say this delicately? Brainless and banging hot. But a competitive lawyer who also works out? I’m going to have to bring my A game.
I sigh. Enough procrastinating. Time to get a move on.
I grab my overnight bag from the passenger seat and yank it across my body. It’s heavier than what I’d bring to a regular sleepover at a guy’s house situation. We were encouraged to do whatever we would at home, and in a panic-pack, I brought my only bottle of wine. Apparently it was here as a “in case of emotional support, open” bottle.
Kicking the car door open with my foot, I hurl myself out and see Xander leaning against his trunk a few cars down. One leg is kicked back against the bumper as he scrolls through his phone.
How he has the strength in that one leg to carry the weight of his entire muscley body on zero sleep is beyond me. He’s wearing what I’m going to label as Xander’s capsule wardrobefrom this point on. White T-shirt, faded black jeans, Chelsea boots. The exact outfit he wore last Friday.
Me? I’ve at least rotated through a few outfits since I saw him last. Today I’m wearing skinny jeans, my favorite Nike high tops, and a tank top. Seeing him in the flesh makes my stomach fizz. The static image on my phone does not hold a candle to the fire emoji that is Xander in real life.
As I gawk, he rubs his neck, and I’m starting to think this is a trademark move of his, although I suspect he doesn’t even know he’s doing it. Rubbing the tension away from what I can only assume is sleeplessness just makes me want to have those same fingers rub me.
He looks up and sees me—because when someone stares at you like you’re a piece of meat, the reptilian part of your brain kicks into high gear and puts you on high alert. You know, in case of a saber-toothed tiger and imminent death. Which might not be so wrong. Idosorta want to nibble on his ear. Shaking my head clear, I make my way over to him.
He puts his phone in his pocket and gives me a small wave as I approach. “Hey, so thanks again for doing this,” he says with so much sincerity you could cut it with a knife.
“No worries,” I say, trying to match his fake nice. I will not break the nice-guy act first. I will go Method all the way if I need to. I will become the caring, loving girlfriend of the insomniac man with the one outfit every night for four weeks for four thousand dollars per week. I am committed.
“I know it doesn’t exactly fit in with yourlifestyle.” The sincerity eviscerates from the air around us. “Hope you can put it on pause.”
Excuse me? What the actual fuck does that mean?
“My lifestyle?” I say through gritted teeth, trying to uphold the nice-guy act I solemnly vowed to moments ago.
“The Bone It lifestyle,” he says, clarifying. One-night stands. “I don’t want anything jeopardizing this for me.”
Like my sex life and the rules that come along with it are going to ruin his plans.
“I’m sleeping next to you every night for four weeks. When, exactly, am I going to be fucking around?” I say, putting on my best condescending teacher voice.One plus one equals two.
He cocks his head in response, alluding to the other twelve hours of the day that are wide open to an ex-teacher who has nowhere else to be and nothing else to do for the next twelve weeks of summer vacation. To him, the math ain’t mathing.
I decide to ignore the pointed look, which says a lot more about him than me.
“We going in?” I say, refocusing on the job I came here to do.
There’s a moment when he doesn’t move. Like he’s assessing whether he does, in fact, want to go in with me. That maybe living with insomnia forever is better than getting treated if that means he’d never have to see me again.
But then, he plasters a fake smile on his face. “Let’s do it,” he says. And there it is. That seemingly insignificant smile that tells me everything. If he were stuck on a desert island with me, I’m the last person in the world he’d want around. And yet he’s so fucking desperate, he’s going to sleep with me for four whole weeks.
Well, ditto.
We start walking toward the entrance and he grabs my hand. It seems my body doesn’t give a shit about this new information about how little he thinks of me, because holding his hand feels like atoms colliding.
“Nice move, fake boyfriend,” I say, just for the sake of talking.
“Well, for a couple who has sex every night, surely we can’t keep our hands off each other,” he replies oh-so-casually.
