Charlie nods, settling in beside me.
“Okay. Now you.”
Charlie takes the pen from my hand and slides the paper his way. Then he hesitates, brow scrunched, as if in deep thought.
“Seriously? You don’t have a list already? How are you unsure about this right now?”
Charlie offers a confused shrug. “I don’t know. I guess I thought we’d figure things out as we went.”
Oh, sweet, naive man.
“Maybe in an actual relationship.” I reach out to tap the paper. “But this is basically a business deal. Why don’t you add the stuff about Pig to start?” I prod him in the side, still not fathoming my future fake husband doesn’t have more hard limits at the ready.
Charlie carefully jots down a few sentences, then passes the paper back to me.
As if I have the right to add more.
I read over his scrawl.
Luna will adopt Pig, but Charlie will be the primary caregiver until the end of their marriage.
That’s it.
“Okay, what about house rules?” Maybe if I lead him enough, the ideas will start flowing.
Charlie tugs on his lower lip, thoughtful. “I don’t know. This is your house.”
“Oh my fucking God. This is like pulling teeth. Be a little selfish. A little honest. What’ll make you more comfortable here?”
He shrugs. “I’m an organized person. Not a fan of clutter or mess. You don’t mind me cleaning your place regularly, do you?”
My forehead hits the table—and not too gently. “You’re turning yourself into my live-in maid? What universe are we in right now?”
“Hey.” Charlie’s hand comes to my head, urging me up. “Cooking. I’m not great at that. How about you cook and I clean? Or you get us takeout if you’re a shitty chef too.”
“I’m a nutritionist. Cooking is in my wheelhouse. I’ll handle the meals.” At this point, I’m desperate, so I write that rule down. “We can split the other chores. You don’t have to clean the house.”
Charlie shakes his head. “You’re at work all day. I’ll handle it.”
“Charlie!” I shove up from my chair to pace. “I’m not marrying you to get a housekeeper! I’m supposed to be your sugar mama!”
He sinks his teeth into his thick lower lip, obviously trying to stifle a laugh at my outburst.
“Luna”—he takes on a gentler tone—“you are supporting me financially for the next year. You’re giving me the freedom and time to figure out my life’s passion. This is not a one-sided exchange.”
When I open my mouth to protest, he stops me with a raised hand. “How about this? We’ll add a rule that if I’m ever feeling overwhelmed with the amount of housework, we’ll talk about it and devise a new system. Okay?”
The deal still sounds like him creating an out he’ll never use, but it’s hard to argue with Charlie when he gives me those hopeful eyes.
“Fine.”
My fake fiancé’s shoulders relax, and he grabs the pen and scribbles on the paper. Then he pauses, and I can tell by the edge he holds himself on that he’s finally thought of something.
Thank God.
“What is it?”
“I just …” He trails off, then rubs an agitated hand over his skull.
