My answer? I shrug because I really don’t know. He doesn’t frustrate me nearly as much as Archer does, so there is that.
‘I know he likes me. That’s enough for now.’
‘Do you think he’ll ever see you like this,’ he asks, a note of something hard to discern in his tone.
‘No one has ever seen me like you do.’ And that’s the absolute truth. He’s certainly seen bits of me no one else has, too.
‘Well, I don’t know about you, but I could do with a drink,’ he says, taking my hand to lead me from the room. I snatch up his discarded T-shirt, pulling my hand free to slip it on.
In the kitchen, it turns out Archer has beer, beer, beer, or vodka. And milk, primarily for his morning cereal. I opt for the latter when he tells me he doesn’t know how to use the shiny coffee machine. Plus, he doesn’t appear to own a kettle. And while it’s not exactly coffee time, I’m wide awake.Wide awake and wired. A little anxious and a lot confused. I’ve hurt his feelings somehow. I know I really misread what happened at the castle, but somehow I know that’s not it.
The answer comes to me a moment later with a metaphoric yet still painful slap to my head. We’ve just had sex, mind blowingly awesome sex—again—and I’m talking about someone else. Great, I can addinsensitive idiotto the list of stuff I dislike about myself.
As Archer fills my glass, I take the opportunity to glance around Archer’s personal space. The kitchen is compact, the cabinets pale and super glossy and looking out into an open plan living space. The windows are large and dome like, and I’m hoping they have some kind of privacy coating that stops people seeing in as I pull his T-shirt farther down my thighs. A grey sectional sofa is littered with what looks like scattered cushions made from denim, one of which Elvis is currently using as a holding place for his bum. More Danish looking furniture and a rug with diagonal stripes, a small dining setting with a space-age looking lamp hanging over it, and a TV you could probably watch football on from space.
The space is pristine. Neat and clean, and not at all like any of my brother’s homes. The only personal items around, the only indicators that this room isn’t a posh furniture showroom; the pair of running shoes on the floor next to the sofa and an abandoned rabbit chew toy. Oh, and Elvis, of course.
And he has plants. Plants and a dog. And yet I can’t manage to keep a goldfish afloat.
I take a seat at a tall stool as Archer cracks open a beer, draining half of it immediately as he leans against the cabinet opposite. I can’t take my eyes off him. His body is so lean and defined. Quads. Abs. Biceps and those shoulder caps things. He looks like a swimwear model with the exception of his just-fucked hair.
‘Are you looking at something in particular?’ he asks with a lazy grin.
‘Did you decorate this place yourself?’ I instantly swing around in my chair. ‘It’s so stylish.’
When I turn around again, his smile is no longer in residence.All the beautiful obliquesas he twists at the waist to put down his bottle. He leans back again, his hands gripping the countertop, making the muscles in his arms and abs pop.
Is he doing it on purpose?
‘A developer bought the building,’ he says eventually. It takes me a moment to remember what we were talking about. ‘This place used to be an old warehouse before it was gutted, most apartments sold off plan. This flat was one of the last to go. It was dressed to help it sell and I persuaded them to throw the furniture in.’
‘It’s really lovely.’
‘Yeah, so you said. So, this plan of yours. You know, if he loves you, or even just likes you at this point, he won’t care about your dating history. In fact, for some blokes, your inexperience might work in your favour if—’
‘It’s not about him,’ I answer, my whole body on edge. Archer snorts derisively. ‘It’s true,’ I insist. ‘It’s about me and how I feel. And most of the time I feel pretty crappy when I’m pushed out of my comfort zone.’
‘Dating as, like, exposure therapy?’
‘Yes.’ Relief washes over me as it seems he gets it. ‘I just want to go out for dinner or drinks without worrying I’m being abrasive or offensive, or bloody weird.’ My eyes drop to the glass in front of me and I run my finger through the condensation.
‘I’ll do it.’
‘What?’ My head snaps up. ‘You’ll do what?’
‘I’ll date you. Be your study buddy. Your fuck buddy.’ He throws out a verywhatevergesture. ‘We’re already supposed to be dating according to the office.’
‘I’m not sure they really believe us,’ I find myself babbling. ‘I can’t ask you to do it.’ Can I? ‘You’d be giving up your social life and—’
‘You mean give up fucking?’ My mouth falls open but before I can reply, he speaks again. ‘Because I’ll be fucking you, won’t I?’
‘Look, Archer, I like you a lot. I’m just not sure it’s a good idea.’
‘Why not? We have roots and a backstory. And it’s not like you’re one hundred percent comfortable around me. And I’m hardly likely to lull you into a false sense of security when you’re always picking fault.’
‘I don’t pick fault. We’re just different people.’
‘Of course we are. I’m a bloke. A bloke who’s willing to expose himself,’ he adds with a wicked sounding chuckle as I begin to impersonate a guppy. ‘You know you like it when I do that, though not nearly as much as you like it when I fuck my own hand.’
