“I…uh,” Liam hesitates. “I talked to your brother while you were in the shower.”
“Really?” I say. “How’s he doing?”
Liam watches me pour milk into my cereal bowl and scratches at the stubble across his jaw. “He’s good. They finished building the health clinic, and now he’s seeing patients for the next eight weeks.”
“Sounds like Cal,” I say, digging through the drawer for my favorite spoon. Eight weeks. The past month has been fun pretending things are going smoothly, but Cal will be back in two months, this thing with Liam will be over, and I’ll have to get on with my life—figure out what that even looks like now that my art career is off the table. I might be painting, but it’s not the kind of art that sells, and I’m not sure I even want it to be anymore.
“I didn’t tell him…” he says, pulling me out of my doom spiral. He shifts on his feet and studies the pile of Cal’s mail on the breakfast bar like it might have some answers. “I didn’t tell him you were here.”
Relief washes over me. I need more time to sort everything out. I look up at Liam—the flush on his cheek, the bow of his lip, the hard line of his shoulder—and I’m hit with an uncontrollable urge to get lost in those muscled arms.
Maybe I can pretend for a bit longer.
“It’s better this way,” I reply, and take my Froot Loops into Cal’s room, shutting the door behind me.
Chapter 17
Liam
Two weeks into this agreement, and I should be grateful she’s keeping us on track.
At first, I was worried Sophie was having second thoughts. The way she slipped out before I woke up that first morning, how she disappeared into Cal’s room after we talked about his call—I figured maybe she regretted the whole thing. I could have let it go, maybe not easily, but I could have gone back.
But a few nights later, while we were watchingSurvivor, she crawled between my knees and made me see stars. What I’d mistaken for second thoughts was clearly Sophie sticking to the rules we’d both agreed on. Just sex, no strings. I wasn’t disappointed—this is exactly what I signed up for.
And the sex is incredible. The next time she was doing yoga in the living room—in her skimpiest shorts and strappiest bra—I rewarded her with an orgasm right there on her mat. One morning, when she was almost out the door for coffee with Liv and Andy, she asked if I had five minutes. I made her come so fast she wasn’t even late.
But Sophie is determined to keep things purely physical. She started ignoring the egg sandwiches I made her until I quit leaving them. She blows my mind with her body, then isup and dressed before I can catch my breath. We don’t linger, and we definitely don’t have sex in Cal’s bed again.
This should be exactly what I wanted—not to get caught up in all the relationship distractions. So why do I wish she’d let me hold her longer? It’s fine. Cleaner this way. Whatever that first night was, it wasn’t feelings. Just really good sex. I’m not sure I’d even know whatmorefeels like.
“Shit,” she mutters, clicking keys on her laptop one afternoon. I’d just gotten out of the shower and was going to suggest a quickie before I catch the concern in her eyes.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Oh, nothing.” She glances over her shoulder at me, but doesn’t seem to notice I’m only in my towel. “Just another reminder, I’m behind on my student loan payments.”
“What about your content stuff?” I ask, pulling on my shorts. She’s clearly not in the mood. “You seem to be working all the time.”
“Yeah, but the pay is shit and inconsistent. I’m going to need to find something more stable soon.”
“Yeah, you and me both.”
She holds up her coffee mug. “Cheers to burned-out has-beens who can’t make ends meet.”
I huff out a laugh, but her assessment stings a little. I walk over to the kitchen and punch a few buttons on Cal’s ridiculous coffee machine until I give up and grab a beer from the fridge. I turn around to see Sophie watching me, but she quickly looks down at her laptop.
“What about your painting?” I gesture across to the stack of canvases piling up against the living room wall. Skylines, landscapes, sunsets. Realistic, but all with a slightly different spin, different colors, perspectives, and sizes. She’d been painting every day, getting up early and lugging her supplies to the roof. I don’t follow her anymore, and she doesn’t invite me, but every day when she comes back down, paint-stained and sun-kissed, I swell with pride. I see the light in her eyesagain, the one she was missing when she first showed up at Cal’s.
“This isn’t the kind of art that sells,” she dismisses and turns back to her laptop.
I don’t know anything about art, but I don’t understand why not. I set my beer on the counter next to her and start folding a basket of my clean laundry.
“I was kind of thinking about maybe doing seasonal tax prep or something,” I say, folding my t-shirts into a neat stack on the counter. I know what we agreed to, but I like this—working side by side, watchingSurvivortogether, just hanging out even when we’re not having sex. “I think there are certifications, but I haven’t looked into it yet.”
“But do you really want to spend all your time doing taxes?” She swivels her body on her stool to look at me.
“What else am I going to do?” I fold another t-shirt and notice her light pink sleep shorts and tank top have somehow found their way into my laundry. I don’t mind. In fact, I like it more than I should. I fold the shorts into a tiny package and place them next to her.
