“You know,” she says. “How it would be between us.”
Itagain. This conversation is driving me absolutely insane.
“I think it’s normal,” Ally continues. “Under the circumstances.”
“What are you saying, Ally?”
She hesitates for a beat, then takes a deep breath. “I’ve been wondering what it would be like to sleep with you.”
My hands clench the steering wheel so tightly I’m amazed it maintains its shape.
When I don’t reply right away, Ally keeps talking. “I mean, we’re living together, and we’re not dating other people, so it would make sense.”
“Ah.” It’s not a brilliant reply, but it’s the best I’ve got at the moment.
“Have you thought about it?” Ally asks lightly.
Only every waking minute.
“No,” I grit out.
“Oh.” The disappointment is clear in her voice, and it pinches my chest.
I force myself to focus on the road, and we drive in silence for a few minutes. I know I should change the subject and talk about something harmless, like the weather or the hockey playoffs, but I can’t manage to do it.
“What would you think about it?” Ally asks as we drive into the condo garage.
And now there’s no doubt whatitis.
I park the car with unusual care to buy myself a little time.
What would I think about it? It would be the fulfillment of a fantasy. A dream. Everything I’ve wanted for weeks.
And a mistake.
Because Ally’s just spouted a bunch of nonsense about a placebo effect, and people in arranged marriages being forced to live together. And biological programming for the survival of the species.
And I promised I wouldn’t take advantage of her. So much as it kills me (and right now, it feels like it might), I can’t sleep with her.
Not tonight, anyway.
Because if I sleep with Ally, it’s going to be because she wants me. Drew Malone. Not because we’re two healthy adults who happen to be sharing a condo, or because the charade of pretending is playing a trick on her brain. Not just because we’re living together and it makes sense.
Not because of a placebo effect.
I want her to want me, regardless of whether it makes sense or not. The way I want her.
I put the car in park and turn off the ignition before I turn to face her.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea, Ally,” I tell her.
“Right, of course.” Her words come out so quickly I can barely understand them. “Forget I asked.”
She gets out of the car and starts toward the elevator, and I sit frozen for a minute, admiring the way she looks from the back. Her high heels make her legs look impossibly long, and I feel a sharp tug in my groin.
And then she stops, turns, and looks surprised to see I haven’t made it out of the car. I pull myself together and catch up with her.
The tapping of Ally’s heels echoes through the silent garage, and I glance down at her shoes. They’re soft pink, with delicate straps across the instep that fasten at the side with tiny buckles. High heels and pointed toes. I’m amazed she can walk in them; they must be killing her feet.
