Thanks, fake-husband-with-no-benefits.
Big Bad Raf:
You’re a brat. Most wouldn’t complain about living rent-free in New York. I’m at my next meeting. Don’t forget your boxing session with Evie this afternoon. Stay safe on your work trip.
Yes, Daddy. Safe travels home.
And Raf…
Big Bad Raf:
Yes?
Miss you too. *insert kiss face*
I clickout of our text thread with a smile on my face and disappointment in my chest because I thought I would at least get to see him for a day or two before I had to leave for my trip. I may have tried to hide it behind banter, but I really do miss him. So much. The more time I spend with him, the more he reveals the true color of his heart is not black at all. Raf the dirty-talking, commanding lover is unforgettable, but Raf the caretaker who sat in the bath fully clothed, held me and gave me space to talk, then married me and fed me a dinner of my favorite Italian dishes before breaking all his rules by fucking me and letting me sleep in his arms—he’s unparalleled dream-man material. Every time I think about how tender he was with me, it makes me teary.
Even with the distance and work schedules that mean we’re ships in the night, the lingering heaviness of sexual tension permanently swirls around us. Maybe keeping things platonic as fake husband and wife is for the best if it means that I can have him as a friend I can count on, but my heart and body wholly revolt every time my logical brain presents the argument. It’s also the logical part of me that reminds me I don’t necessarily need to have his permission to pack my things and go. I have my own money and am old enough to sign a lease, but in a fucked up way, a part of me is holding out that we might cross those lines again and he’ll say the words I want to hear—Fuck being my fake wife roommate; I want you to be my forever-mate.
Oh man! Thank God I’m giving therapy another go because the longer I remain here, the more delusional my thoughts become about what Raf and I might be.
The doorbell chimes and it’s a little earlier than Avery mentioned we needed to leave, so I check the camera and see it’s Raf’s cleaner. I told him not to worry about booking her this week, that I could tidy up, but I know he likes his space pristine. I’m also not complaining. As much as I like blaringthe music and losing myself in a therapeutic deep clean, there’s something so nice about coming home to a sparkling clean house—especially the shower—that you didn’t have to scrub yourself!
“Hi, Nina! How are you?” I say as I buzz her in.
“Hi, darling girl. Glad to see you’re still here. Where’s Mr. Serious these days?”
“He’s still traveling for work.”
“Ah, I see. You been sneaking in all the boys then?” she says, giving me a wink.
“Oh how I wish! But no, I’ve been working long hours too. Besides, Mr. Serious stipulated in the house rules, no sleepovers with boys.” I giggle.
“Ah darlin’, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. ’Sides, if he won’t snap you up for himself, he don’t get to make the rules.”
“My thoughts exactly, Nina,” I agree. “What’s that?” I ask, noticing she has a garment bag in one hand.
“Oh there was a courier here when I arrived. Looks like Mr. Raf’s dry-cleanin’. And he gave me this too,” she says, producing a black envelope from her bag. It’s got my name on it. Strange…no one except my cousin, the girls, and Raf’s family know I’m here. Maybe it’s an invitation to one of Evie’s events.
“I can take that and put it in Raf’s wardrobe,” I say to her, taking any excuse to be in his space, to feel a little closer to him.
“Thanks darlin’,” she says, handing it over.
It’s only upon taking it that I see a clear bag fastened to the other side with an invite on a heavy card. It’s an invitation to a law dinner. It’s addressed to the firm, and I can see someone has scribbled Raf’s name on it and circledplus one.
Even with him gone for the last few weeks, I still get a whiff of his lingering cologne, masculine and smoky, when I walk into his fastidiously neat space. I lay the suit bag on the bed, the same one that we were a tangle of limbs and sheets in all those weeks ago. Want courses through me at the memory of what we’vedone in that bed and in his shower. I touch my flaming cheeks to cool them. I wonder who he’s going to take to the dinner, and an idea forms.
I place the envelope addressed to me down on the bed and take my phone out of my jeans pocket to snap a close-up of the bag with the invite.
Let’s make a wager. *insert image*
Big Bad Raf:
You again? Is that my bed?
Yes. I thought you had a meeting.
Big Bad Raf:
