Chapter 15
fifteen
CALLA
There is a break in our “honeymoon” after the three appearances, just enough time for me to “move in” with my “husband with benefits” and to check if my store had burned down yet. Our next sponsored appearance isn’t for another three days.
Originally, I planned to spend the downtime baking cupcakes and potentially reacquainting myself with my vibrator, like a lot . But Jay had other plans, so I’m here.
At Jay’s house.
Yup.
I stand on Jay’s doorstep with three enormous suitcases. I’ve packed as if I were moving for real. In truth, having all my things here will make the charade more believable. So why am I having trouble ringing Jay’s doorbell?
The door swings open, unbidden. Jay’s face lights up. “Finally!”
“It took me a while to pack. But I was always going to show up here. I like to keep my commitments.”
He steps aside to let me in, then reaches for the nearest suitcase. “Here, let me. ”
I hesitate for a moment, then let him take it. He lifts it with ease. I can’t help but notice the way his muscles flex under his shirt. Focus, Calla. Fix your mind on anything that isn’t a replay of Jay asking you to be friends with benefits. I’ve gone through that particular moment enough for today.
Jay sets each of my suitcases down in the living room, then looks back at me with an expression I can't quite read. Indecision? I rush to fill the awkward void.
"So, where am I going to sleep? The guest room? The couch?” I hate the second idea, but I try not to let it show.
He crosses his arms over his chest. "Calla, if we're going to make this believable, my wife should sleep in my bed."
Heat rushes to my face. I’m sure I look like an over-ripe human tomato. "Your bed? You mean with you in it?"
“Unless you had something else in mind?” Jay shrugs, his nonchalance driving me insane. How can he be so cool about all this? "It’s a big bed. Besides, it’s just sleeping. Right?"
"Just sleeping," I echo. My voice sounds strangled. This man is surely going to be the death of me.
He pushes off the wall and walks toward me. He stops just close enough that I have to tilt my head back to look up at him. "Relax. You can sleep wherever you want. I’m just saying what would make the most sense."
He touches my shoulder in a way that could be a caress… or could be nothing more than reassurance from a friend.
I swallow hard, my mind racing with possibilities. "Noted."
He drops his hand and steps back. Suddenly, I can breathe again.
"You shouldn’t sleep on the couch, though. And there isn’t a bed set up in the guest room. The downstairs is more of a museum than a living space. It’s all for show. You should see how I live upstairs."
“I guess I will.” I glance around the posh living room. It does have a staged quality, like something out of a glossy magazine. "You said that someone decorated this place. For Instagram, I’m assuming?"
He laughs. "If I’m honest, my ex-fiancée decorated it. Blake was ‘getting my place ready for her to move in.’ It’s her taste, not mine. Why would I choose that?" He points to a painting of rugged mountains and a stream with an enormous jumping fish. “Where is that supposed to be, huh? Colorado? Alaska? Montana? Also, not for nothing, but I hate fishing. It’s fucking boring.”
My mind instantly conjures the photos I’d googled the morning after the cake tasting. Jay and Blake, the picture-perfect couple, smiling at some gala or other. She’d been wearing a very expensive dress and a diamond the size of a golf ball. He’s been posing in a tuxedo, looking every bit the successful influencer.
To find out that the relationship wasn’t as rosy as Instagram made it seem fills my chest with a strange feeling. Well, that and the fact that Blake bailed on the their wedding. I feel… hope? I can’t figure out why I feel this way, so I ask, "So you don’t even like it?”
He shrugs. "It’s not even remotely my style. None of this is. This is less a house and more a very expensive set for playacting."
I put my hands on my hips. "It won’t do for you to live in a place you don’t love."
He raises an eyebrow. "No?"
"No," I say, more firmly. "This is your house! You should at least be comfortable when you’re home for long enough to enjoy it. "
He seems to consider this, then nods. "You’re right. So, what do you suggest?"
I look around the living room. Now that we’re talking about it, the sterile perfection of it all does jump out at me. It practically screams in my face. "First, we need to de-Blake it."
A slow grin spreads across his face. "De-Blake it? I like the sound of that."
"Which pieces are hers?" I ask.
"Pretty much everything," he says, watching me circle the room. "She had… expensive taste."
I start by lifting a framed print of abstract art off its hook and setting it on the floor. Then I move to a glass sculpture on a side table, something that looks like a mutant chandelier, and tuck it under my arm. I heft them both, and Jay wordlessly opens the door to his office.
The next twenty minutes are much the same: I move through each room, identify the most egregious examples of Blake’s décor choices, and then put them into Jay’s office. Jay helps me move several pieces of furniture.
By the time we’re almost done, the place is so sparsely decorated that you could mistake it for being recently robbed. I lean the final picture against the wall and wave my hands over everything I’ve tagged as got-to-go. "So, if you didn’t buy any of this, what would you choose?"
He thinks for a moment. "Something more functional. More lived-in."
I nod, mentally rearranging the room. "We’ll need a new couch. You know, something you can actually sink into. Maybe a coffee table with some character. And real bookshelves."
I take down the last piece of art and survey the now- bare walls. The room looks empty, but also full of potential. "This is a good start."
Jay walks over to a high-backed chair and runs a hand along its fabric. "You’ve got a good eye. Maybe you should do this professionally."
"Decorating?" I scoff. "I can barely dress myself."
“Well, you’re good at figuring out what doesn’t fit, then.” He snaps his fingers like a light bulb goes on in his head. "I know a furniture company that sponsors me. We can pick out some pieces online."
"Sure," I say, though I wonder how much input I should actually give. This is his space, after all.
We move to the kitchen and he opens a laptop on the kitchen counter. The website he pulls up is filled with sleek, modern furniture. It’s nothing like the warm, eclectic mix I grew up with.
"What do you think of this?" he asks, pointing to a sectional sofa.
"It’s nice," I say, noncommittal. "Looks uncomfortable, though."
He studies it, then nods. "Yeah, you’re right. What about this one?"
We go through the catalog, discussing pieces that catch our eyes. To my surprise, he takes my opinions seriously. I suggest a reading chair with an ottoman. Jay adds it to the cart without hesitation. We spend the next hour clicking through pages, commenting on fabrics and finishes. It’s almost… fun.
Okay, it is fun. I could never spend this much money on my own home. But Jay doesn’t even notice. A little voice in the back of my head wonders exactly how much Jay makes per year. With his large staff, I’d guess that it’s somewhere in the millions.
At one point, he leans in closer to point at a rug. I catch a whiff of his cologne and my heart does a stupid little flutter.
God, I’m so thirsty. It’s humiliating. I force myself to focus on the screen.
"We’ve got a good mix. I think it’ll feel more like a home now," he says, oblivious to my torment.
I nod. "It’ll take a few weeks for everything to arrive. I hope we didn’t blow your budget."
“Nah. I get a healthy discount. It’s been a while since I made a video for this site, so they’ll be excited to hear from me again.” Jay closes the laptop and looks at me. "In the meantime, we’ll make do. Thanks for your help."
"Don’t thank me yet," I say. "You might hate it."
"I doubt that," he says. “I like everything you do.”
I can’t tell if he means the furniture or something else. Blushing, I stand, stretching my arms above my head. "I should get some sleep. Where do we do that?"
“Sure, yeah. Come on.” Jay leads me up the stairs, insisting in carrying my suitcases. “Prepare thyself.”
Instantly, I’m struck by the contrast between the pristine, photo-ready downstairs and the cluttered chaos of the upper floor. Plastic packing crates are stacked haphazardly in the hallway. I see no furniture as we squeeze past a large, undecorated bathroom. It’s pretty apparent that no woman has ever had any say over this part of the house.
“Huh,” I say. Downstairs is sparse; upstairs is bare . It reminds me of a frat house up here!
"Welcome to Casa del Chaos," Jay says with a slightly embarrassed grin. "Downstairs is for the 'gram. Upstairs is where dreams of organization go to die."
I can’t help but laugh. "So, your house is like a mullet? Business in the front, party in the back? "
He chuckles. For a moment, it feels like we’re just two friends ribbing each other. That is, until we reach his bedroom.
It’s the only room upstairs that looks lived-in, with a large bed and a nightstand. The bed is an unmade heap of linens. A pile of clothes sits in the corner. My heart starts to race as I remember his suggestion that I sleep here.
We stand in the doorway, neither of us making the first move. "I guess this is it," I say, my voice smaller than I’d like.
Jay rubs the back of his neck, looking uncharacteristically unsure. "You can have the bed. I’ll take the floor."
I frown, trying to sound casual despite the heat creeping up my neck. When we first negotiated sleeping arrangements, my answer was definitely more along the lines of, “we can share a bed as long as pillows separate us.”
But now that I know what Jay has to offer in the bedroom, I want nothing between us. Not pillows, not blankets, not pajamas. I’m horny, even if I have a hard time just coming out and saying it to Jay.
So I manage a confident, "Married people usually share a bed. We can manage, I’m sure."
He lets my suitcases slide to the ground and takes a step toward me. There’s an intensity in his eyes right now. My breath catches as he comes closer. "Calla, we need to make this look real. If we’re awkward around each other, no one’s going to buy it."
“So… what are you suggesting?" I play dumb.
He takes another step, towering over me. Now he’s close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from him. "We should practice. You know, to make it more convincing."
"Practice?" I ask. I know exactly what he means, though. He wants to feel the same kind of heat that we felt at the Wagon Wheel. And I’m so starving for him that I’m practically on fire.
"Practice kissing.” There’s a dangerous glint in his eye. "Think of it as method acting, but with more tongue."
I roll my eyes, trying to play it cool. But my pulse quickens. I have to act as nonchalant as Jay. "Ah yes. Because nothing says 'true love' like rehearsed smooching."
He raises a hand to my cheek and cups my jaw. There’s a fire burning behind his eyes. A blaze that can only be quenched by touching me. But his touch is surprisingly gentle. His thumb brushes against the skin over my pulse in a way that sends sparks down my spine. He doesn’t pull back. Jay never admits defeat.
He just waits, impatient yet steady, until I relax. I let out a deep breath and he moves in.
"We can start slow,” he murmurs. His lips are just inches from mine. "Build up to something believable."
I should pull away. I should tell him this is a terrible idea. But instead, I close my eyes and wait.
His lips brush against mine, soft and tentative. My hands find his chest. I’m surprised at how fast his heart is beating. We kiss like teenagers, unsure and exploring at first, but wildly hungry for more.
I’m greedy. I want to kiss Jay for hours. It’s all I can think about.
Just when I think he’s going to pull back and leave me wanting, he deepens the kiss. A heat builds in me spreading from my core to my breasts, from my lips to the tips of my fingers. I press against him, opening my mouth to let him in. Our tongues meet in a slow, deliberate dance.
This is dangerous. This is stupid. This is amazing. I never want it to end.
When he finally breaks the kiss, I’m left panting, feeling ravaged yet incomplete. I search his face frantically as I try to summon the guts to tell him that I need more .
When he speaks, his voice is rough as gravel. “I meant what I said about being friends with benefits."
My mind is a whirl. My body is already screaming yes while my rational side tries to regain control.
"Did you?" I ask. I need to hear it again.
"Fuck yes," he says. "I was waiting for you to bring it up. But since you haven’t?—"
Before I can second-guess myself, I pull him back to me and crush my lips against his. He kisses me with a hunger that sets me on fire. His hands roam my back, my hips. I’m lost in him, drowning.
We stumble toward the bed. Jay lifts me, his movements rushed and impatient. My body aligns with his as he sets me down gently on the mattress. His eyes search mine, asking for permission without saying a word.
This is it. This is where we cross the line.
"Jay," I say, my voice trembling with need and fear.
"Yeah?" he answers, his breath hot on my neck.
"Let’s make it convincing."
He captures my lips again. I moan against his mouth. All I can think is a hasty, this is going to change everything.
But then I’m too busy to think at all.