Fake It ‘Til You Feel It (Work For It #3)

16. Its Not About the House Key

CHAPTER 16

IT'S NOT ABOUT THE HOUSE KEY

MARS

W aking up with Ivy wrapped around me on a regular basis sets something straight in my chest. Beyond calling this thing friends with benefits , we haven’t touched the topic of what we’re doing. But over the last several weeks we’ve spent most nights together, discovered new and interesting places at work to torture each other, and hung out around town and with our friends.

Last night, we almost fell asleep at the beach in the back of my truck after I made her come on my tongue. If this isn’t a relationship, I don’t know what it is.

Ivy stirs in my arms, nuzzling my chest. You wouldn’t think that she’d be a cuddler, but she always has at least a finger on me. I smile to myself, remembering how I woke up last Tuesday to find her hand wrapped around my cock while she slept. Security cock . I snort at the image of her dragging me around by the dick like it’s her emotional support stick.

Her head comes up off my chest, her hair a riot of tangles around her face, her eyes half blinking. “Fuck, I didn’t mean to stay.” And there it is . Every morning we wake up together she tells the little lie that she didn’t mean to spend the night. It keeps our situationship strictly in the No Big Deal category. My chest pinches every time she says it, but I’m trying to build up a callus against it.

Ivy doesn’t do relationships. If this was a drinking game, and I took a shot every time she said it, I’d be in a coma. I love how stubborn she is, but it means frustrating mornings like this where we have to act like what we’re doing isn’t by definition a relationship.

I sit up and swing my legs out of bed. “Let me make you coffee before you head home.” I pull my joggers up, foregoing my boxers for now.

“No, come back to bed,” she whines, making grabby hands at me. I shake one of her hands like we’re formally meeting for the first time. She laughs, flopping back on the bed. “Dork.”

“ Your dork,” I say, poking the relationship bruise because I’m feeling a little salty today. Then I immediately feel like an asshole, because this is what we agreed to. Friends who fuck. Nothing more. She’s been clear about her boundaries, and I have to respect that. Doesn’t mean I have to like it though.

I start the coffee maker, one that’s made of sturdy, Mars proof stuff. On my way to the bathroom, I stub my toe on the end table that I always stub my toe on, mutter a fuck , and limp into the small room. My wetsuit hangs from the shower curtain, and I pull it on.

“Ives, get a move on,” I call from the bathroom. “I’m leaving in ten for the beach and your coffee’s brewing.”

From the sound of her voice, she’s still in bed. “Can’t I stay a little longer? Your bed is so cozy.” She sings the last word, and I smile.

“If you had a key, you could lock the door on your way out.” This is the second time I’ve brought it up, another bruise to poke. I’m not proud of the Susan-level passive aggressiveness in my statement.

There’s a hesitation, longer than the last time I mentioned a key. “No, that’s okay, I’m up. I’ll be ready to go soon. Just need to find my pants.”

They’re in the front room, where she left them after we stumbled in from our night at the beach. She always leaves them in the front room. I bite back a frustrated sigh.

At the front door, Ivy pops up on her toes and gives me a quick kiss. I squeeze her hips and pull her in for a longer one. “Thanks for last night. See you at work,” she says with a bright smile, waving her travel mug at me. With that, she’s out the door and in her car. I try not to let her quick exit bother me. This is us; this is how Ivy and Mars do whatever we’re doing. If this is the most I get from her, it’s enough. It has to be. The question is, for how much longer?

IVY

I almost broke when he brought up the key again. Would it be such a big deal if I had a key to his place? I mean, it’s bigger and cozier than my tiny apartment. We don’t disturb the neighbors when things get loud. His shower is nicer, his TV bigger, and it’s filled with all things Mars. His wetsuit and his sketchbooks and his bookshelves. His canvases and paints, and a set of Adirondacks on the back porch.

Friends give each other keys to their places all the time. You’re an idiot, Ivy Lowenstein. The wall to protect myself is so thick and sturdy you can see it from space, despite the cracks Mars has caused. They grow wider and deeper every day, and the scary part is that I kinda want more cracks.