Page 34 of The Plus One Pact

Only I could hire an escort and somehow find myself with a commitment.

"I'll reimburse you, of course," he says. "Financially, if you'd like. Or—" His eyes flit to the bedroom. They fill with intent. An intent I really, really want to answer.

Having this conversation in his boxers is smart.

The man looks good in the sleek black underwear. Very Italian, actually. Italian-Mexican, I guess. That explains the darker, browner tones in his complexion.

He is handsome. Sexy. Last night was fun. I didn't entirely believe it, and I didn’t quite feel comfortable enough to tell him everything I wanted, but it was fun.

It's a podcast episode, for sure.

And I certainly need another.

Even if it’s emotionally awkward. Even if that part of it isn’t there. I don’t need it there. I need to do what’s best for the show. I need to keep it going. Or I’ll lose the ability to work with my best friend. I’ll lose the only place I’ve ever had to speak my mind. And I’ll even have to move back in with my parents while I rebuild my business. A terrible fate.

But I can’t agree without more information. "Why do you need a fake girlfriend?"

"It's a long story."

"I have time." I take a long sip.

He smiles, pure charm. Somehow, his dark eyes contain the perfect mix of desire, approval, and coyness. It's like he's wrapping me in a blanket of compliments without coming across as desperate or overly attached.

How does he do that?

Or maybe it's me. Maybe I'm attached to the first good fuck I've had in a long, long time. Maybe I'm not one of those women who can’t enjoy casual sex. Maybe I catch feelings.

"I'm used to good coffee. A lot of people are these days." He takes a long sip. "There are options, even here in Orange County. We have Philz, for pour-overs. Local stores. But where can people go for a latte? Or a single-origin espresso?"

What? "I told you. I'm a tea person."

"It suits you. Zen. Subtle."

"I appreciate the compliment, but maybe…" I motion for him to move things along.

"Too much practice teasing, huh?" He takes a long sip and lets out a soft sigh. Not one of pleasure. Something else. Exhaustion, I think. "You met my mother. She's from Italy. We spent summers there, sipping macchiatos at cafes."

"Sounds nice," I say. I’m happy for him. Really. It sounds like he has a lovely family. But what does that have to do with me?

"My father was from Mexico."

Was. So he's no more. Again, I’m sympathetic, but I’m not seeing the connection.

"We were there too. Went to coffee farms. Mexico is still ignored, in the world of coffee and chocolate. When we were kids, my brother and I talked about that. How we were going to change it. Bring our parents' love together to make a shop that married their backgrounds. Mexican coffee and chocolate in an Italian style coffee bar."

Sounds like a nice business. And still, no idea what it has to do with me."What happened?"

"He's always putting it off. Because he doesn't respect me. Thinks I can't commit to anything."

"What's he think you do?"

"Nothing," he says. "I tell him I do accounting for small businesses, but he assumes Mom is paying my bills."

"But, really, you're making all your money, running this small business?"

He nods. "I won't pretend I'm the world's best businessman, but I know a lot. I have a partner."

I swallow a sip, so I won't reply. So I won’t go down a rabbit hole. I’m not his therapist. I’m not slipping into therapist mode.