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“And you’re going to see other people.”

She said it more as a statement than a question. Like she was confirming that I was aware this was an expectation of hers and I had to agree to comply.

“If I feel like it, yes.” I wouldn’t feel like it.

“And I will see other people. So you understand that.”

This was harder. But I reasoned she would see other people whether her and I were hooking up or not, so it didn’t change my decision. And part of me thought that if I stuck around, she wouldn’t date anyone else. She’d enjoyed the sex as much as I had—that was pretty fucking obvious. I’d just have to meet all her needs, a duty I was more than willing to fulfill.

“You’re single. I’d expect you to date other people too,” I said.

She studied my face for a moment, like she was searching for a reason to say no. She must not have found one.

“Okay. If you think you can handle it,” she said.

Neither of us moved. We watched each other. One of our comfortable silences.

My eyes openly roamed her beautiful face. Her thick lashes, dark hair that just grazed her delicate shoulders, a long, graceful neck. Full lips.

I wished I could kiss her.

And the funny thing was she was staring at my mouth too. But her expression was pained. Like just looking at me hurt.

Damn, Tyler fucked her up. I hated that fucking guy.

Sloan called out from the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready.”

Kristen turned without another word. I followed her in the soft flurry of her tart-apple perfume and took the chair next to her at the table.

Stuntman Mike plopped on the floor between us. I leaned over, petting his head, and whispered to Kristen. “I hear this place has great food. Why don’t we eat here more often?”

If I was here to cheer her up, I was going to do just that.

Her face softened. “It’s hard to get a reservation,” she whispered. She glanced at my lips again before her eyes came up to meet mine.

“I know a guy,” I said. “Although I heard they had to close for a few days after the place got vandalized a couple weeks back.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Oh yeah?”

I nodded and looked over at Sloan before continuing, my voice low. “The worst TP’ing Canoga Park has ever seen. No leads. Probably an inside job.”

She smiled, and I saw her mood lift before my eyes.

Brandon came in from the direction of the bedroom and sat down, sliding something across to me. “Look what I got.”

Sloan moaned, setting a Caesar salad in the middle of the table. “Oh God. Not that thing.”

“What is it?” Kristen asked, eyeing the circular wooden box.

“It’s a turkey pot call,” Brandon said, scooting in his chair.

“Yeah, and he’s been practicing with it for weeks. In the house,” Sloan said, putting a bowl of pasta on the table and sitting down. “Gobbling, all day long.”

Brandon gave his fiancée an amused look. “Hey, if I don’t practice, I’m never going to get better.”

Sloan smiled. “Uh-huh. But in the living room though? When I’m painting?” She passed the French bread. “He’s usually so quiet.”

“He’s right,” I said, picking it up to get a better look. “He needs to practice. It takes skill.”