Cody: You’re going? Fuck yes! Good for you!
Me: We’ll see. I know nothing about her. She’s coming over soon so we can get some facts straight. I fucking hate you two.
Cody: Yeah, how awful that we give a damn.
Me: If you gave a flying fuck, you wouldn’t be blackmailing me.
Conor: Technicalities. Admit it, bro. You want to go. You’re into her.
I don’t reply.
They’re right, but they don’t need to know it. The less ammo they have, the better.
Last night, dodging Addie’s punches, bantering, and getting verbally schooled while keeping her safe was the most fun I’ve had in years, and waking up, knowing she was right behind the wall, that the house wasn’t fucking empty... even better.
Shit. I should get a grip and focus on the main goal: earning Cody and Conor’s silence.
I’m leaping ahead after only a few hours with her. That’s unhealthy, considering I’m going to act as herfakeboyfriend for a week. Fake is the keyword I can’t ignore.
We’re diving headfirst into a higher level of intimacy No sex, so I can’t deem this as purely physical. We’ll be intimate without seeing each other naked, and that’s... strange.
Scary.
Exciting.
Every arrangement I’ve ever had with women started with sex. Now, I’ll be faking arelationshipwhile sex is a no-go. This thing might blow up in my face if I can’t keep a level head.
The doorbell rings a few minutes past four. Addie’s there, boxes upon boxes of takeout food stacked so high I can only see the top of her head.
“Are you feeding an army?” I ask, taking the stack. “What is all this?”
“Fuel. We’ll be here a while, won’t we? I haven’t eaten since breakfast.” Instead of stepping inside, she turns toward a brand-new orange BMW M8 parked on the driveway.
With the click of a button, she opens the trunk, tucks two bottles of wine under her arms, then huffs and heaves at a huge case of Corona.
I drop the food on the side table, jogging after her before she wrestles herself into a hernia. “Are you always this self-sufficient? You could’ve asked me to grab this.”
“You had your hands full.” She marches into my house like a regular guest who doesn’t require an invitation. Well, as mygirlfriend, she technically doesn’t. “Can we eat in the garden? I’ll grab some plates.”
Oh yeah, sure, help yourself.
Whatever.
I drop the beer in the cooler, checking my wristwatch. Six hours before the meet-up. Enough time to burn the little alcohol contained in one small bottle of Corona. With that in hand, I fetch a glass for Addie and head outside.
“I went with the safest bet and got Italian,” she chirps, emerging outside with plates and cutlery. “I grabbed everything that looked delicious on the menu.”
There are seven main meals, two soups, and a dozen other boxes of sides and starters. We could stay here for a week and not run out of food.
“I did a little digging.” Addie tips half the carbonara and half the Bolognese onto her plate.
If you ask me, those two don’t go together well.
“I had to check you’re not a psycho,” she adds.
“You bit me, hit me, called me names I can’t understand, and you’re worriedI’m the psycho?”
A soft, sweet burst of laughter flies past her lips, along with a mouthful of wine. Some trickles down her chin onto her white shorts. That’s not coming out.
