I wince at the memory. “I was doing my job.”
“You were right,” he concedes, “and I denied it, even to myself, because admitting those feelings meant risking everything. My reputation, my career, and my carefully constructed life.”
“This is different,” I protest weakly.
“Is it?” Grant leans forward. “Lucas, in the five years I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you look at anyone the way you look at Jess.”
I stare at the floor, unable to refute his observation. “We only agreed to six months.”
“Maybe you should talk.” He stands, signaling the end of our meeting. “Before your time is up and it catches you both by surprise.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It never is.” He claps a hand on my shoulder.
I rise to leave, but he stops me at the door. “Sophia’s making my mom’s meatloaf this Saturday. You and Jess should come over.”
“I’ll check with her,” I say, though we both know we’ll be there.
Driving home, I can’t shake Grant’s suggestion that I should talk to Jess. What would I say? That I look forward to evenings on the couch, to her feet in my lap while we both work on laptops, to occasionally debating the merits of some news story or studio press release?
But he’s right. I’ve grown accustomed to her and herhabits, the way she knows exactly when to push and when to let things go.
And the sex…the sex is fucking incredible. Not just physically explosive, though it absolutely is, but intimate in a way I’ve never experienced, like we’re constantly discovering new things about each other.
I park outside our building—my building, technically, though it hasn’t felt that way since she moved in. The elevator ride up feels endless as I rehearse what to say. How do you ask your fake wife if she wants to be your real girlfriend?
The door opens, and the smell of Thai food greets me. Jess, setting containers on the coffee table, has already changed into leggings and one of my old t-shirts, and her hair is piled messily on top of her head.
She looks up with a smile that hits me directly in the chest. “Hey! I got extra spring rolls for you,” she tells me in a sing-song voice. And just like that, I know I’m in love with her.
The realization should be earth-shattering, but instead, it feels like the most natural thing in the world, like I’m finally acknowledging what’s been true for weeks, maybe even years.
“You ok?” she asks, noticing my silence. “You look weird.”
I cross the room in three strides, pull her into my arms, and kiss her like I’m a drowning man and she’s oxygen.
When we break apart, she’s breathless, and her eyes are wide. “What was that for?”
“Grant invited us to dinner on Saturday,” I say because I’m a coward. “Sophia’s making meatloaf.”
She studies my face, knowing there’s more. “And thatwarranted a kiss that nearly set the apartment on fire because…?”
“Just happy to be home,” I say, which isn’t a lie at all.
Smiling, she rises on tiptoes to give me another quick kiss. “Me, too. Now, come eat before it gets cold. Dylan will be here in an hour.”
And so, we fall back into our routine of dinner, conversation, her feet in my lap, and my hand on her ankle, all while I try to figure out how to tell her that I don’t want this arrangement to end, that I want all of this for real. Forever.
twenty-nine
. . .
Jess
Steam risesfrom Sophia’s kitchen island as she tosses green beans with garlic and olive oil. The scent of her famous meatloaf, actually Grant’s mom’s recipe, wafts from the oven, making my stomach growl in anticipation. Through the window, I can see Lucas and Grant on the patio, beers in hand, deep in conversation beside the fire pit.
“Are these ready to go out?” I ask, arranging chocolate-dipped strawberries on a serving plate.
