Page 19 of The Plus One Pact

Seriously. Meredith’s friend wasn't kidding. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Olive skin. Leading man frame and leading man looks. Classically handsome, but not too tall or too broad or too symmetrical, not in a way that makes him look untouchably perfect.

Even in the suit he looks very touchable.

He smiles, and his dark eyes light up. Somehow, he exudes just the right amount of attention. Enough to flatter. Not enough to scare.

He's good at this. Really good at this.

"You must be Ivy. Or do you prefer Doctor?" he asks.

"Oh god, am I one of those tedious people who always mentions I'm a doctor?" I don't remember saying that in my message, but maybe I'm on my way. I certainly know colleagues who can't let anyone address them as Mister or Ms.

"No. I suppose, I liked the image of it." He moves through the entrance, into the living room. His eyes move around the room. Looking for a diploma. Or just looking.

I can't tell. I have no idea how he really feels, what he really wants. I almost believe he really wants me. Maybe I should believe it. Why not? I'm paying him to pretend, after all. "It's nice to meet you, Romeo." There's no way I'm calling him Mr. Bonito. That can't be his real name. No parents would be cruel enough to name their kid Romeo Bonito.

I offer my hand.

He opens his arms for a hug.

I fall into the motion. Into his warm, hard body.

He wraps his arms around me in a full embrace. He pulls me closer, just enough I feel wanted and safe, then he releases me.

It's a quick thing, a moment, but it overwhelms me. It's been a long time since someone has held me. Since I've felt this sort of visceral desire. I like the way he smells. The way he smiles. The way he stands.

It's not that he's handsome, though he is. It's his presence.

"Can I get you a drink?" I fall into my manners as I release him.

He looks at me gently. "A drink sounds great. Whatever you're having."

"Really? Anything?"

"Try me."

"What if I drink pepper vodka?"

"I love it spicy." He lets just enough of a flirty tone fall into a voice.

An act. Or the truth. Why question it?

"But I'm guessing that's not your drink."

"Oh?" I ask. "Based on what?"

"Your apartment." He picks up on something. Changes tactics. "But I'd rather you tell me what you like. I love a woman who speaks her mind."

"That's a rare trait in a man."

He chuckles. "That's what my mom says too."

A sex worker who's a mama's boy. That's different. Or maybe not. Now isn't the time to get Freudian with the fella. "No. Go ahead. Guess. What’s my drink?"

"It doesn't bother you?"

"I'm curious."

I move into the kitchen.