Page 117 of My Real Love Affair

She fanned herself dramatically with my passport. “Spontaneous? Melody Stephens doesn’t do spontaneous.”

“Exactly. And that’s why I need this.”

“This is libido talking. Good sex and you’re ready to follow the man around the world.”

I grinned and bounced my eyebrows. “Good is not the word I would use. Fantastic. Toe-curling. Mind-blowing.”

She rolled onto her stomach, propping her chin in her hands. “I need the tea. Is it the abs? The tragic backstory? Or is he—you know?”

I wasn’t about to give her the graphic details of Austin’s dick, but it was glorious.

“All of the above,” I answered.

She studied my face and then slowly shook her head. Then she let out an exasperated sigh. “You really like him, don’t you?”

“I really do.”

“Like, more than like him.”

“Maybe.” I felt my cheeks warm. “Probably. Yes.”

“Oh, sweetie.” Her voice softened. “You’re falling for him.”

“I think I might already have fallen.”

She was quiet, processing this. I waited for her to tell me I was crazy for the ten thousandth time and he was going to break my heart. Part of me wanted her to say it because I already knew that to be the case, but I was also hoping she would tell me to go for it. Jump in with both feet and live like I was dying.

“Okay. But if he hurts you, I’m going to destroy him. Not just on Instagram. Like, actually destroy him. I know people.”

“You don’t know people.”

“I could know people. I could learn to know people.” She grabbed my hand. “Just be careful, okay? I know he defended you on that podcast. I know he seems different lately. But Bancrofts are Bancrofts. They’re used to getting what they want and then moving on.”

“I know the risks.” I squeezed her hand. “But he makes me happy, Cleo. Really happy. And I think I make him happy too. Isn’t that worth the risk?”

“I guess.” She didn’t look convinced, but she wasn’t arguing anymore either. “So you’re really doing this.”

“I’m really doing this.”

“Fine. But you’re keeping your location on at all times. Don’t forget the code word. If you need me to call the FBI, either type out pineapple or send me the emoji. He’ll never know.”

“The FBI?”

“Or the Coast Guard. Or whoever rescues people from yachts.” She pulled out her phone.

“Cleo, this is excessive.”

“No, it’s being smart. And safe. I’m not saying he’s a serial killer, but I’m also not saying I would let him cat sit.”

I laughed. “Noted.”

She stood up, looking around my bedroom at the chaos of packing. “What am I supposed to do for a week without you?”

“Take a break. Relax. You work too hard.”

“Work is my identity. I don’t know how to relax.”

I pulled out my company credit card—the one we used for purchasing clothes, accessories, and anything else work-related—and handed it to her. “Treat yourself. Go to that fancy spa you’re always talking about. Or book a couple nights at a nice hotel. Or hell, fly down to Miami and get some sunshine.”