“About?”
She swallows nervously. Nervous is not a place Megan finds herself in often. This alone has me on high alert.
Megan points into my apartment. “Can I come in? I’d rather not talk in the hallway.”
“Uh, no.” I glance behind me. “I’m busy.” I don’t know where Paisley is, but she’s staying out of sight.
A frown works its way between Megan’s eyebrows. She peers around me, searching, and her gaze stills.
I turn, thinking I’m going to see Paisley, but nothing is there.
The shoes.
Paisley’s red-bottomed spike heels lie on the ground beside my chair.
Megan clears her throat. “Your new girlfriend knows her way around shoes.”
“Yeah.” I don’t know what else to say, and I am not about to correct Megan. If we’re letting Paisley’s family think I’m her boyfriend, I sure as hell don’t mind letting Megan think the same.
Megan stands there, uncertain, then laughs softly and says, “Wow, this is awkward.”
My hand rubs over the back of my neck. “It’s not great.”
“I guess I shouldn’t have come here.”
I’m scrambling for something to say that won’t hurt her feelings, and all I can come up with is, “Probably not.”Wow, Wordsmith.Impressive.
She thumbs toward the stairs. “I’ll guess I’ll just go.”
I nod and give a halfhearted wave. “Take care, Megan.” Then I step back into the apartment and close the door.
“Umm,” Paisley says, suddenly appearing. “That was weird to witness.”
I run my hands through my hair. “Where were you hiding?”
“In the kitchen. I walked out when I heard you closing the door. Halston was right. Your ex wants you back.”
“Megan’s probably bored,” I argue, going to sit on the couch.
“Or she realized she made a mistake,” Paisley counters.
“Too bad.” I settle in and weave my fingers together behind my head. “I’m someone else’s boyfriend now.”
Paisley rests that fine ass of hers on the arm of the couch. “The deal was that you’d be my fake boyfriend on Bald Head Island. Not here.” A playful look wrestles over her features. “Is this violating some kind of location clause in the contract?”
I shrug. “The provision wasn’t made. Moot point.”
“Moot point?”
I nod.
Her nose scrunches. “I think I dislike the word ‘moot.’”
“Moot,” I try it out, then say it twice more. “Agreed. I hate it.”
“Strike it from the English language.”
“I don’t have the authority.”
