Chapter 14 #2
“I know, we’ll say we bumped into each other on the Heath and got talking and realised we liked each other. It started off sort of casual but now it’s a bit more serious.”
“That’s lame,” he says. “How about you fell in the Heath pond and I happened to be walking by, spotted you, and heroically dived in and rescued you?”
“I’m actually a very good swimmer,” I say flatly. “We’re going with my idea.” I scribble it in the book.
He peers across at what I’m writing. “So we’ve only been dating three months?”
“Yes,” I say, repressing the urge to snort again because Mr Hottie rarely sees the same woman twice, let alone for three whole months.
“Then we’d definitely be in the can’t-keep-our-hands-off-each-other stage.”
I narrow my eyes at him, but once again his expression is deadly serious. Damn him and his poker face!
I flip back to my page of rules. “Number two, acceptable forms of physical contact.”
“I thought you said no dirty talk,” he teases.
I ignore him. “Hand holding. There.”
“Not enough. There need to be little signs of affection.”
“Like?”
He reaches over the table and strokes his hand lightly down my arm, waking up all the butterflies in my stomach. I swallow. “Okay, that is acceptable too.”
“And …” he adds, lifting his hand to my face and tucking a lock of my hair behind my ear, sending those butterflies wild.
“Anything else?” I ask, my voice a little more squeaky than I’d like.
“I can rest my hand on the small of your back.”
Thank goodness there is AC in this flat, or I’d be boiling over.
His hand lingers by my cheek, his eyes roaming over my face, and then he leans back across the table.
“How about you?” he asks.
“Pardon,” I say, because I’ve totally forgotten what we were talking about.
“How are you going to touch me?”
I try to force my brain to come up with a sensible answer but all it keeps doing is listing all the ways I would really like to touch him; for instance, running my hands down his bare chest, sinking my fingernails into his butt, wrapping my mouth around his–
“Molly?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I guess, similar?” I cough and make a note in my book of the things we’ve agreed on.
“We should cover boundaries,” Horatio says. “Things that are a definite no-no.”
“Right, yes, good idea.” I write ‘no-nos’ on the page.
“Well, kissing,” I say, trying not to think about how good he is at kissing, and how much I’d happily jump into his lap now and kiss his face off.
“No touching below the waist. No sex – and that includes oral and phone. No mutual masturbation and no strip-teases.”
I look up from the page and Mr Hottie’s blue eyes have darkened several shades.
He looks like he’s considering leaping over the table and doing all those things to me.
Which is why this contract is needed. I’ve slipped up once or twice before but having clear rules and boundaries is going to be a big help.
“Let me see, what else do we need to cover? Ahhh, yes. Nicknames.”
“Seriously?” he says with disgust. “I hate that. My stepdad used to call my mom Bunny and it made me want to puke every time.”
“Sorry, it’s necessary.”
“Fine,” he says, folding his arms across his chest, “then my name for you is going to be Sugar Booger.”
“What – that isn’t even a name!”
“It is. And it’s what I’m comfortable with.” He grins at me.
“I’m vetoing it.”
“You can’t. It’s a deal breaker for me.”
“Fine,” I say, “then for you I’m choosing,” I spin my pen, eyeing him up, “Cutie Patootie.”
His cheek twitches. “Fine,” he says, although I’m sure he’s bluffing. “I’m fine with that.”
“Good, I’m glad you’re fine with that. So Sugar Booger and Cutie Patootie.” I pause, waiting for him to cave. When he doesn’t, I wince and write the names into my book. “I think that’s everything.”
“Nope, we haven’t covered the terms of our break up.”
“We’re breaking up?!” I say in mock alarm.
“It’s standard practice to add a termination date to any contract.”
“You’re very knowledgeable about these things. How many fake relationships have you been in before exactly?” When he doesn’t answer my eyes widen. “You know I’m not leaving this apartment until you tell me?”
“I’m happy for you to stay,” he says.
“But are you happy for McGruff to stay? His farts are incredibly revolting.” McGruff lifts his head from his paws and looks at me with disgust.
“One,” Horatio says, “I’ve been in one fake relationship before.”
“How is that even possible?!”
“It was an old friend. Alex’s ex-boyfriend was being … shitty. It helped for him to think Alex had a new boyfriend on the scene.”
“A tall, muscular boyfriend,” I add.
“He was a coward. I could have been four-foot-three and weighing eight stone and it would have been enough.”
“That’s very sweet,” I say. “She must be a very good friend.”
“He is a good friend – one of my oldest.”
“Oh,” I say, “oooh! I’m glad Alex had someone looking out for him. So, how did that fake relationship end?”
“We dated for six months and then Alex changed his relationship status on Facebook, posted a few posts on Instagram about remaining friends and we went our separate ways.”
“That sounds very civilised.” I wish my real relationships could have ended that nicely. “So you want to do something similar or shall we go out with a bang? Stage a public argument somewhere? Maybe I could catch you talking to cam-girls online?”
“I would never do that.”
“Oh, come on, every man on the planet has at least one Only Fans subscription.”
“I don’t.”
“No, I suppose you don’t,” I say; he really doesn’t need one – not when he has all the models from London Fashion Week filtering in and out of his bedroom. “Then you want to go with the argument? I could have enough of your insane need to keep everything neat and tidy–”
“And I could have had enough with your constant need to insult me.”
“I do do that,” I admit.
“It’s a nasty habit,” he says.
“I think it’s because you’re just too perfect. It’s your only flaw.”
“I’m not perfect, Molly.”
“Horatio Shaw you have your life sorted. You have yourself sorted. You have time to work out, clean your flat, and hold down a job that makes you enough to keep two grand in cash just lying around! You can cook and you have a wine fridge. You help best friends and virtual strangers out with fake-dating requests. Theoretically, you’re prepared to dive into lakes and save drowning ladies.
You bring brownies into work for your colleagues.
And you’ve not complained once about the disgusting smells coming from my dog. ”
“To be honest, I thought that smell was you.” I stick my tongue out at him. “I’m not perfect, Molly.” He scrubs his hand through his hair.
“Then tell me one thing that’s wrong with you.”
He holds my gaze, opens his mouth as if he’s going to tell me, then shuts it again. He stands up and collects the bowls from the table.
“I think we should say we realised we just weren’t compatible,” he says, carrying the dishes over to the dishwasher and stacking them inside.
I close my book, feeling guilty about something. I just don’t know what.
“We can break up after the weekend away,” I say, “you’ll only have to put up with me for another five days.”
“We’ll break up once the reversal potion is ready,” he says, closing the dishwasher, “that makes more sense.”
“Deal!” I confirm, “we’ll break up our fake relationship, after you’ve fallen out of love with me!”