14
I’M IN A CLOSET WITH LUKE THE CONTRACTOR. I’VE JUST ACCIDENTALLY stepped on his foot. The bulb in here hasn’t been installed, and the nearest window is covered for painting. We’re using a flashlight he apparently always keeps on his person.
“All these colors look the same to me,” I say to the samples on the wall.
His laughter is worn but polite. This man is tired of me. “I can assure you they’re very different. This one has a hint of silver. The other is more green toned, see? This one is bluer.”
They are literally all gray.
Normally, I would be FaceTiming Cali and telling her to choose her own damn closet color, but she doesn’t have a phone and hasn’t called from her latest location. I wouldn’t be able to reach her if I tried (and I’ve tried ), which sends dread sinking through my stomach.
“I see now.” I absolutely do not. “This one,” I say, pointing to the second swatch color. “The bluer one.”
Luke frowns. “That’s the—”
I step out of the closet. “Amazing work. Thank you. I’ll be on the floor of the living room if you need me again.”
I’m moving around the sticky notes that encompass my second act when Penelope calls.
“Your boyfriend is on the news.”
I roll my eyes. “He’s not my—” Then I sit up straight. “Wait. Which channel?”
I say that as if I have cable, or a plugged-in television, and plan to flip through channels with a remote. Luckily, Penelope sends me a link to a livestream. I click it open on my laptop, phone balanced between my ear and shoulder.
Parker fills the screen. It’s a photo of him in a suit, his face unreadable. His green eyes are as intense as ever.
The text at the bottom of the screen says “Atomic Acquisition in Trouble. Virion Stock Drops Ten Points.”
“Wait, does this mean the sale isn’t happening?”
“No,” Penelope says. “It’s just a leak. There’s probably some sort of snag, but neither company has confirmed it.”
I don’t understand. “Who would leak something that could hurt the acquisition?”
“Competitors, maybe,” she says. “Media about it isn’t good, especially when anything surrounding him always goes viral.”
I find myself feeling oddly defensive of him. Angry at anyone who would try to hurt him. Part of me hopes Charles will leak the news of our “relationship” to offset this press, just like Parker intended.
Which doesn’t make any sense. We barely know each other. All of this is very much pretend.
The news anchor plays a video of him speaking in front of a congressional committee a few months ago, advocating against selling customer data. Parker’s voice is clear, his argument sound.
“This is kind of sexy,” Penelope says.
My cheeks heat. “Penelope.”
“What? He’s not your real boyfriend, right?” she says the last word like she’s hoping I’ll admit he secretly is.
But that’s not the truth. “Right,” I say sharply, then hush her so I can hear the rest.
MY COMPUTER KEYS ARE LOUDER THAN USUAL, SOUNDING LIKE A horse clomping on the street in the middle of this coffee shop. A few people look over at me, but I ignore them. I’m currently at the second act of my screenplay, but I’m typing the words as though I’m writing a scathing letter to the building’s board about the neighbor downstairs who won’t stop having piano recitals in the middle of the night.
The sound of my keys drowns out the world. I don’t even notice someone’s in front of me until they say, “Only one drink? Is there a latte shortage I should be aware of?”
Electricity races through my chest.
I give my keys a break and sit back in my chair. Parker’s leaning against the wall in front of me.
“You’re back,” I say quietly. He’s been gone a week. I didn’t realize how much I had come to anticipate our morning runs and run-ins in the hallway, until I was the only one on our floor.
“I’m back,” he says, just as hushed.
A few people are looking at us. No, not at us. At him . He sits down like he doesn’t notice.
“I saw the news,” I whisper. “Is there something wrong with the acquisition?”
He looks around. Leans in. I lean in too. “Virion wants to sell our data,” he says into my ear. “Their plans came out in the middle of due diligence. I refused.”
It makes sense. I shamelessly spent the night watching his entire presentation in front of that congressional committee, rewatching certain sections.
“I’ve never sold my customers’ data, even when the VCs wanted me to. We would be far more valuable if I did.”
I turn to meet his eyes, only to find our faces just inches apart. I swallow, then lean toward his ear. My bottom lip touches his warm skin as I say, very quietly, “Do you think that will be the end of it then?”
He shakes his head. “No,” he says, his breath against my temple, making my spine curl. “They’re still interested. We’ll see how it shakes out.”
We turn to look at each other at the same time, and nearly collide. He stops just short of my lips. We’re far too close, both leaning over the coffee shop table. Sharing breath. Eyes locked, like we’re back on the glass floor. One second passes. Two.
I’m the first to sit back. He does the same.
Then his gaze narrows. Either Parker knows me better than I thought or my feelings really are as transparent as that walkway we conquered, because he says, “Elle, what’s wrong?”
“What?”
“You look upset. I could see it the minute I walked into the shop.”
I wonder how long he was watching me before I noticed him. “Also, I’m surprised none of your keys have fallen off.”
No use in denying it, even though I know he’s about to think I’m the most ridiculous person who has ever lived. Especially when he’s currently going through real problems. “They stopped making the scone.”
He frowns. “The blueberry one?”
I nod, invigorated by his outrage on my behalf. “I showed up this morning, and there were none in the case. When I asked, they said they weren’t making them anymore. Something about the cost of the ingredients or something.”
Parker nods. “Ah. And you didn’t get a latte in solidarity with the discontinued pastry?”
That’s exactly what I did. “How did you know?”
He lifts a shoulder. “It seems like something you would do.”
Maybe I am a transparent walkway.
I sink deeper into my chair.
“I don’t mean to be dramatic,” I say, preparing to be the most dramatic I’ve ever been in my life. “But that pastry got me out of bed on the weekends. I looked forward to them all week. It was my joie de vivre. I know that’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid,” he says. And I can see he means it.
Which is really just kind, because it is objectively stupid.
I stretch my fingers against the semi-sticky table edge. Taking out my feelings on my keys has led to stiffness.
“So, are you going to find another coffee shop?” he asks. “One with scones?”
I shake my head. “No. Even though they don’t reciprocate, I’m loyal to a fault when it comes to coffee shops. And this one was perfect . . .”
My phone makes a noise and I frown. The only person who ever texts me is Penelope, and she’s supposed to be on another date with the doctor.
The confusion only deepens when I read it.
“Something wrong?” Parker asks. “Besides the scone?”
“No . . .” I say. Though, maybe? “It’s Taryn. She invited me to dinner with Emily and Gwen.”
When I look up at him, he looks mildly amused.
“What?” I demand.
“You’re trying to come up with a logical excuse why you can’t, aren’t you?”
My glare is still in place as I say, “No, actually, I’m not.” I 100 percent was.
“Then why aren’t you going?”
“I never said I wasn’t.”
He tilts his head at me. “Are you?”
“No,” I say, and his expression is far too pleased. “But only because I don’t think she really means it. She’s . . . she’s really nice. She’s probably just being nice.”
The amusement in Parker’s face vanishes. “Elle,” he says, “why is it so hard for you to believe people might actually like you?”
Because I don’t even like me, is what I don’t say.
He can read something similar in my face, because he searches my eyes, his own narrowed. “You really don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?”
“That you’re fun, Elle. You’re fun to be around.”
I almost snort out the hot chocolate I’m sipping. The word “fun” and me have never been in the same sentence before.
“Why do you think I’m spending the summer with you?” he asks.
“For your image,” I say. “For the acquisition. To cover up all this press.”
He looks annoyed, but he drops it, and I’m grateful. I start typing out an excuse on the group chat just as excited messages start pouring in with a startling amount of emojis. They seem fun.
I stop my typing.
Penelope would tell me to go. Parker clearly thinks I should too. I can feel him staring at me, though he doesn’t say another word.
This summer is supposed to be about growing beyond the confines of my hermetic life, right?
I delete my message and send a new response before I can backtrack.
“I’m going,” I say, before opening my laptop and starting on the scene again. I can’t see his expression, but I can guess he’s pleased.
This time, I’m gentler on the keys.
WE MEET FOR DIM SUM AT A PLACE CALLED GOLDEN UNICORN IN Chinatown. It was Emily’s turn to pick. Apparently, they do this dinner thing a lot.
“The guys are never invited,” Taryn tells me, as we walk down the busy blocks. “Charles tried to show up once, and we called him an Uber home.”
Before I laugh, I glance at Emily. She looks right back at me and waves a hand. “I broke up with Charles a few days ago,” she says casually.
“It’s the reason we’re celebrating,” Taryn says.
Emily doesn’t look too torn up about the breakup. She doesn’t seem too anything, really. She is the definition of easygoing, not letting any single emotion rule over the rest.
I strive to be Emily-level cool. Nothing seems to faze her.
The restaurant is busy, but it isn’t long before we’re sitting down. The carts come by, and we fill every square inch of the table with a variety of dumplings, reaching over each other to grab the ones we want. We keep saying we’re stuffed, and can’t possibly eat any more, yet also keep packing our plates. I try melon rice balls. Egg custard tarts. Swan-shaped dumplings. Vegetable dumplings. Coffee jelly that I have a love-at-first-bite situation with. Conversation quiets as we chew. We’re all so absorbed with our meals that it isn’t until we leave, and walk a few blocks to a bar, that we start to talk again.
Gwen, apparently, oversees drinks. “We play a game,” she says, “where I order, and everyone tries to guess what, exactly, is in their cocktail. You don’t have to drink, of course. It’s only if you want to.”
I don’t normally drink. But I also don’t normally go out. Penelope and I usually order takeout and eat it on pillows in front of the TV because our apartment doesn’t fit a dining table.
We’ve lived in the same place since we moved to LA, even as our circumstances changed. We could get something bigger, better, but I hate moving. It’s the ultimate state of change.
We moved constantly when I was a kid, before my mom went back to school and got a better job. Nothing ever seemed permanent, until it was. It took a year living in our house for me to fully unpack, but once I did, I was rooted there. I held on to that house with claws, until the bank took it away.
Gwen’s waiting for my answer. She’s smiling. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her not smiling. “I’ll drink,” I say, and she retreats into the menu, fingers drumming against the side of the table. She orders in hushed tones, and we’re supposed to do our best not to listen.
The drinks arrive, and Taryn goes first. Hers is slightly gold. Muddled. “Lychee?”
Gwen nods excitedly.
Emily takes a sip. Another. “I have no fucking clue, but it’s good,” she says, then downs the rest.
My turn. I take a small sip and wince. All I taste is alcohol. I try to let it sit on the tip of my tongue. There’s something floral, fragrant. “Rose?”
“Close. Lavender.”
“How is that close?” Taryn says. Gwen ignores her.
Gwen takes a sip of her own non-mystery drink. It looks like coffee. “Espresso martini,” she says. “Always.”
A few sips of my own drink make me bold. I glance over at Emily, who’s sitting back, watching as Gwen and Taryn debate which couple is going home on some summer reality show.
“Can I ask why you and Charles broke up?” I say, then find myself immediately regretting it. We don’t know each other well. It’s too invasive.
But Emily just hits me with the full radiance of her gaze and says, “You can ask anything you want, Elle.” She takes a sip of the tea she ordered after her drink. She doesn’t even lower her voice when she says, “I found out that he’s been selling stories about Parker to the press.”
Taryn and Gwen go silent. They look at me.
I wonder if I should act surprised, but being with these women makes me not want to fake anything.
Taryn’s eyes narrow at me and my lack of shock. “You suspected?”
I nod. “And Parker.”
Emily scoffs. “Well, Parker might be fine hanging out with Charles knowing that, but I’m not.” She takes a sip of her tea. “If he’ll do that to one of his friends, what would he do to me, you know?”
We all nod. We all know.
I frown. “But . . . if he’s been selling stories about Parker, why hasn’t he told the press about us?” The Billionaire Bachelor having a girlfriend should have been on the homepage of Page Six by now.
Emily sits back in her chair. “Because I told him if he sells them any story involving you, I’ll forward his boss the emails he sent to the press.” She purses her lips. “I’m guessing having a mole on the exec team of an internet security company would be highly frowned upon.”
I stare at Emily in awe. “Thank you,” I say, even though getting media about Parker’s and my relationship was the goal since the beginning. She doesn’t know the relationship is fake, though. She doesn’t know about Parker’s and my deal.
We barely said a few words together at the basketball game, yet she wanted to protect me.
It makes me feel guilty about lying to them. But how could I explain to them why I would pretend to be Parker’s girlfriend without revealing my own secret?
Emily just shrugs. “If we women don’t watch out for each other, no one else will.”
Taryn toasts to it.
And we all drink way too many cocktails.
WE’RE ON A PLATFORM THAT MIGHT AS WELL BE A GLORIFIED TABLE, belting out a song from the early 2000s like it’s our job. The crowd probably can’t hear a thing through our laughs and Gwen loudly messing up the lyrics, but our arms are intertwined as we save one another from falling off the definitely-doesn’t-earn-the-name stage.
Drinks turned into more drinks at a karaoke bar in K-Town. We were all piled into a taxi to take me home, and Taryn insisted we stop here because it was on the way . It was in the exact opposite direction, but we all screeched in excitement, and what I thought would be a night of watching other people belt out songs that don’t play on the radio anymore turned into us standing on the stage, squinting at the too-small words on the teleprompter, wondering if we all needed glasses, linked like the chain of a charm bracelet.
If Penelope were here, she would be in the crowd, cheering us on, doing the whistle that requires putting a large percentage of your hand into your mouth.
When our song is over, we all stumble off the platform and weave into a hug that’s all elbows, hair, dry shampoo, and giggling. Just like their restaurant tradition, we all take turns choosing each other’s songs, which are revealed only once the singer in question is onstage.
“I don’t know this one!” Gwen insists.
“Good luck!” Taryn says.
Emily steps onto the platform to help, and they somehow turn a dance pop song into a duet.
This is fun. This is something the characters in one of my screenplays would do. For the first time in a while, I’m living life instead of just writing about it.
It feels good. I can’t believe I almost made an excuse and missed this. There are moments in life, I think, that make you grateful you didn’t just stay in your room.
By the time I’m walking out of the elevator and toward the apartment door, I’m humming to myself, smiling, and slightly stumbling. And my phone is dead.
Wait. My phone is dead.
I rapidly click the buttons on the side like they’re a defibrillator that will magically bring my phone back to life. No matter how hard I press, or how many times, my phone only flashes a sign telling me, in very clear terms, Yes, I am dead.
I knew this stupid technologically savvy lock would be the ruin of me. There’s a backup key, but of course, that is in the apartment.
The lobby doesn’t have a copy since Cali gave the extra one to Luke.
He’ll be here first thing in the morning. I check my phone for the time and curse when I see that it is, yes, very much still dead.
It must be past midnight. We stayed in the karaoke bar until closing. Two a.m. I briefly consider knocking on Parker’s door and asking for a charger, but then I remember he has the latest model, with the new hardware.
I’ve never been so happy to see the previously impractical decorative couch. I collapse onto it, tuck my legs beneath me, and wait for Luke.
THERE’S A TALL MAN IN FRONT OF ME. HE’S SAYING MY NAME, I think. He’s blurry, until I blink a few times and make out gray sweatpants and a T-shirt stuck against muscle.
My first thought is Luke, but no, I know this body—a little more intimately than I should.
It must be a dream. Or some alcohol mirage.
I can’t be dreaming about Parker looking like this: sweaty, and muscled, and leaning toward me. It’s just not healthy.
“Go away,” I croak, hoping my dream or hallucination or whatever this is will disappear.
The mirage frowns. “Are you sure? This doesn’t look comfortable.”
It’s not. My neck is twisted in a position that has alerted the nearest exorcist.
I move, and a bolt of pain drags me into reality. This isn’t a dream. No, in a dream my back wouldn’t hurt so badly. And my feet wouldn’t sting. And my head wouldn’t have its own heartbeat.
I sit up on the couch, only to find that I’m barefoot. My heels are tipped over on the carpet.
Right. I decided to dress up nicely. I’m wearing a skirt and button-down shirt that’s a little more sheer than I expected. The material is scratchy against my skin. Definitely not meant to be slept in. I’ll have to give Penelope that feedback the next time she decides to sneak items into my luggage.
“You got locked out, didn’t you?”
I yawn. “No, I actually prefer sleeping like a contortionist. You should try it.”
His hair is ruffled. He looks tired. I’ve never seen him so disheveled, or casual, even when we’ve gone running.
“Did you just . . . work out?”
He nods. “At the gym downstairs.”
I frown. “This building has a gym?” Not that I have much use for it. “Wait—is it morning?” I turn to the window in the hall and see it’s still dark out.
“No. I just . . . I couldn’t sleep,” he says. “I work out to release stress.” He looks confused. “You weren’t out here an hour ago . . .”
Strange. Even the idea of working out causes me stress. “What time is it?”
“Around three.”
I groan. Six more hours on this chaise. Lovely.
“You don’t have this charger, do you?” I ask, holding up my phone.
He shakes his head.
I sigh, then start folding myself back up.
A few moments of silence tick by. He just stands there and watches me turn into a human pretzel. Finally, he says, “You can sleep in my apartment.”
I give him a look.
“I have four bedrooms.”
Right. It’s a nice offer . . . but being his fake girlfriend is one thing. Sleeping within feet of each other is another.
“No thanks,” I say. “It’s actually not that uncomfortable.” I wait to see if I’ll burst into flames for my egregious lie.
“Right,” he says.
“Luke will be here in a few hours anyway.”
His body tenses. “The contractor?”
I nod. “He’ll let me in.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not leaving you out here. I’ll get a hotel if it makes you uncomfortable to sleep in the same place. You can have my apartment.”
I give him a bewildered look. “I’m not going to kick you out of your own apartment.”
“I don’t mind,” he says. “It wouldn’t be any trouble.”
That’s ridiculous. I wave his suggestion away. “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”
We have a stare-off, until he finally sighs. He walks to his door. Unlocks it. Then he turns back to me. “Come inside, Elle,” he says.
His voice is uncharacteristically sincere. Something twists within me.
He’s trying to help. Putting my barbs away for one night won’t kill me.
“Fine.” I nearly lose my balance in the few steps to his door, even though my heels are in my hands, not on my feet.
He steadies me and plucks Penelope’s stilettos from my palm, like he’s afraid I might accidentally stab myself with them. He carefully places them just inside the doorway, in front of what, in my sister’s unit, is a coat closet.
“Did you . . . drink?” he asks, which is about the politest way of asking, Are you drunk?
I nod. “I did. I’m okay. Don’t worry.” I had two and a half drinks throughout the night, which normally would have me vomiting all over Parker’s apartment, but luckily, I ate enough to settle my stomach.
I walk past him and stop. His place. It’s surprisingly . . . warm. Not as sterile as I thought it would be.
I hear him step next to me. He must sense my shock, because he says, “What? Were you expecting a bunch of monitors everywhere?”
That was exactly what I was expecting.
He makes an amused sound at the expression on my face. “I’m the CEO of a tech company, Elle. Not a hacker.”
I glance at him. “So, you couldn’t hack into the government’s satellites if you wanted to?”
“I didn’t say that,” he says, before casually strolling through the living room and into what must be his bedroom. It’s just a few seconds before he returns, holding a nicely folded T-shirt and cotton pants. He hands them over.
I let the pants uncurl in front of me. “Thanks,” I say. “If I decide to spontaneously grow fourteen inches, these will be great.”
Instead of smiling at my joke, he looks genuinely disappointed in himself, like he should have anticipated his fake girlfriend might accidentally get locked out of her apartment in a miniskirt and need something to wear to sleep. “Sorry I don’t have anything in your size,” he says. “I just thought—if you wanted to change . . . but you don’t need to if you don’t want—”
“Thank you,” I say, genuinely this time, because it was thoughtful. He seems surprised at the softness of my tone, and I realize I’ve never genuinely thanked him before, even though he’s objectively done nice things for me these last few weeks.
He motions for me to follow him, and I do, my blisters-in-the-making stinging against the cold hardwood floor. He opens a door in the hallway and turns on the lights. The room is bigger than both Penelope’s and mine back home and looks like it’s never been used. The sheets are pristine.
“There are towels in the bathroom, if you want to shower,” he says, before hesitating. He’s looking at the way I’m leaning against the wall, like I don’t trust myself standing upright without swaying (because I don’t). “Though . . . I wouldn’t advise it.” His forehead creases with concern. “Do you need something, Elle? Can I help you?”
“I’m fine,” I say, and I mean it, though I will most definitely need Advil and a breakfast burrito tomorrow morning, when the hangover and regret hits.
He doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t press. “I’m going to shower,” he says. “I’m just over there if you need me.”
I nod, then do my best impression of someone who doesn’t feel like the world is spinning and shoo him out of my room, even though this is his apartment.
As soon as he’s in the hall, I sink to the floor. Yes, the world looks a lot less in-the-middle-of-a-sea-storm on the floor. I sit there for a while, looking around the room, wondering if he bought it this way or hired a decorator, and why I’m even thinking of the decor when I’m minutes away from potentially throwing up all over it, before peeling off my top. The fabric is scratchy, and I sigh in relief when it’s gone. I sigh even more in relief when it is replaced with Parker’s shirt. The fabric is as soft as bedsheets. It smells like detergent. Like him .
When I stand, it reaches a little longer than my skirt did. No matter how many times I roll the pants, they slip down my hips, so I kick them into the corner.
I groan, back of my hand against my forehead the way my mom would put hers when I was sick at home. This was very much a self-induced nausea, however. Tomorrow is going to be terrible. I need to drink water. I need to have it injected into my veins like those reality stars after a night out on the town.
The door only slightly creaks as I inch it open. “Parker?” I say tentatively. There’s no answer. He must still be in the shower. I creep down the hallway and into the kitchen, which looks far too lived-in for someone who likely has a private chef.
Though, now that I think about it, I haven’t seen or heard anyone else enter his apartment in the weeks I’ve lived here.
The kitchen has a waterfall marble island (thank you, HGTV shows that always pair well with coffee and morning anxiety), sleek appliances, and dark blue cabinets. The mental house I build every time I watch any of these shows, as if I too will someday soon be undergoing a major renovation project, has white cabinets. But this is . . . nice. Masculine. Sexy?
I frown. Everything except for a hideous vase filled to the brim with five different shapes of dry pasta. It’s sitting awkwardly at the edge of the island, like it kind of knows it doesn’t belong.
Why am I here again?
Water. Right. Normally, I would use the tap, but there’s a sleek, slightly humming machine nearby that looks too fancy not to try. All I need is a cup. I start opening cabinet after cabinet and quickly find an impressive stash of snacks. Everything is annoyingly semi-healthy (“kale chip” should be an oxymoron), but there’s a big bag of popcorn, some pretzels, and chocolate-covered almonds. I shamelessly fill my arms with the stash like it’s Black Friday and I’ve forgone a cart, grinning like a thief whose main goal is indigestion, so pleased with myself that I turn around too quickly and knock over the hideous vase.
It shatters on the floor, throwing up pasta everywhere.
A door somewhere slams open, and Parker races into the kitchen, wet hair still dripping down his forehead, in nothing but sweatpants.
I try to look anywhere but the upper body that is somehow more muscular than I could have even imagined. His shoulders are wide, he has every muscle like he’s collecting them, and are those abs —
“Sorry!” I say. “I was looking for a cup of water.”
His gaze falls to the bags of snacks still clutched against my chest. “In the snack drawer?”
I nod like that makes sense.
Then I remember the pile of shattered glass in front of me. I make to take a step, to find a broom or something, but I’m barefoot and slightly off-balance—
Before I step into the pile of glass or do something stupid like try to clean it up with my bare hands, Parker grips my hips. I tense, but all he does is seamlessly lift me out of the middle of the broken glass and onto the edge of the kitchen counter.
My every nerve seems to flicker on. The marble is cold against the backs of my thighs, and I remember, very suddenly, that I’m wearing only a shirt.
His shirt.
And I’m not wearing anything but underwear beneath it.
Parker seems to have the same realization as he looks at me. My hair is over my shoulders, and I watch as his gaze drops to my chest, prickled from the cold, clearly visible in this white shirt. He seems to go unnaturally still. I wonder if I should be embarrassed or cover myself, but I don’t want to. He quickly looks away.
Then he’s on his knees in front of me.
Suddenly, this perfectly air-conditioned apartment now feels like a furnace. There’s a heat dropping directly between my legs. But all he’s doing is cleaning up the shattered vase. I watch, transfixed, as he carefully picks up the large pieces of glass, not cutting himself the way I have exactly 100 percent of the times I’ve ever dropped anything fragile. Then he finds a vacuum and gets rid of the rest, including all the pasta. The entire time, his shoulders and arms are flexing, and I have no business studying him so closely, but I also feel like I might not be able to stop. He has muscles I didn’t even know existed.
By the time he’s standing in front of me again, I think I’ve forgotten how to breathe. The alcohol has made me bold.
He swallows as I slowly reach a hand toward him, but he doesn’t make a move to find a shirt or somewhere else to be entirely.
“I didn’t think real people actually had abs,” I say, my nails lightly dragging down them.
His voice is tight. “Only the computer-generated ones?”
“Only the Hollywood-generated ones.”
“Ah,” he says, and my hand drops against the marble again.
“I’m sorry about your . . . pasta holder?”
He looks faintly amused. “It was a vase.”
My transparent walkway face must be even worse when I’ve had something to drink, because he says, “What is it?”
I shrug a shoulder. “I don’t know. It didn’t really match everything else. It looked a little out of place.”
“Out of place?”
The truth stumbles out of me. “It was . . . so ugly.”
He’s still amused. “My mom gave it to me.”
I make to hop off the kitchen counter. “Right. Should I throw myself down the elevator shaft? Or do you want to push me?”
He laughs and puts a gentle hand on my hip, keeping me in place. The heat within me turns into a wildfire. His fingers are so long, curled so close to exactly where I want them.
“You’re barefoot,” he says. “There might be pieces I didn’t get.”
I shake my head. Swallow. “No, you were thorough. I was watching.”
His eyes meet mine.
“I—I wanted to make sure you didn’t get cut or anything. You didn’t, obviously, which was kind of impressive. Your fingers are . . . they’re very . . .”
“Impressive?” he supplies, a slow smile forming on his face. His eyes are pinning me on the kitchen counter. His hand is hot against my hip. I straighten and his thumb dips, just slightly, smoothing down the fabric.
“Dexterous,” I say, though it comes out more like a whisper.
He’s closer than he was before. He towers over me, even perched on the island.
My blood is thrumming; my skin feels like it’s about to catch fire. My knees slightly widen, an invitation, and Parker steps forward, settling between them. He’s still too far away. I haven’t felt like this since that night in the stairwell. Electric. Needy.
“Can I lift you again?” he says softly, breath hot against my forehead, and I nod, wishing he would ask for far more.
A moment later, his dexterous— Really, that was the best word you could come up with? —fingers are curling around my waist, and he’s lifting me with an ease that I now know is thanks to an extensive gym routine. He turns, circumventing where the glass fell, and then slowly brings me back down to my feet.
He makes to drop his hands, but my fingers curl over his before I can think too long about what I’m doing. Logic has left the premises. All that is left is this deep, thrumming need. He swallows. Eyes locked, I rise on my toes. Our lips are just inches apart.
“Parker,” I say, not recognizing my voice. It’s just a husky rasp. He leans forward, like he can’t help himself. Our foreheads press together. We’re just barely touching, and it’s not enough. I want to be far closer.
He must see the want all over my face, because he says, “Elle. You hate me, remember?”
“I do,” I say, nodding. “I hate you so much.”
We stand there, sharing breath, our chests touching with every inhale. Every scrape of the thin fabric against my heated skin is torture. His hands are still on my waist, and I want them higher, lower, everywhere. I want to tell him just how much I hate him while he bends me over the counter.
I’m shocked by my thoughts, my wants. I slowly bring a hand to his face. I run my thumb across the slash in his eyebrow and down his cheek, gently, so gently, and I swear he shivers. My other hand is on his bare chest. His heart is beating wildly beneath it.
“I missed you, when you were gone,” I say, because apparently I am at this moment someone who acts on her desires and voices the truth.
“I missed you too,” he says, one hand now cupping the side of my face. He does the same thing I did, explores for just a moment. His callused fingers lightly scrape against my cheek. Down my temple. Across my lips. I swallow, and his fingers trace down my neck. His thumb runs across my collarbone. I’m ready, aching.
But he steps back. I carefully fall back onto my heels and watch as he walks over to a cabinet I hadn’t investigated, gets a fancy glass, fills it with water from the fancy machine, and carefully puts it in my hand.
“Drink, Elle,” he says. I do.
The cold water almost immediately puts out the fire burning beneath my skin. I’m suddenly too aware of my peaked chest and his lack of shirt entirely, and the fact that I just broke his mother’s vase.
“I—”
“You should get some rest,” he says, turning away from me, and I nod.
“Absolutely.” I raise the glass. “Thanks again.”
And then I rush back to the room.
“WE’RE NEVER DRINKING AGAIN,” I TELL MY REFLECTION. MY MASCARA and eyeliner have headed south for the winter. My hair looks like I’ve spent the morning on a roller coaster.
I woke up against a silk pillowcase way nicer than the one I currently sleep on, tensed, and groaned as the memories came flooding back.
Me on that decorative couch in the hallway.
Me and Parker, entering his apartment.
Me again, becoming the world’s worst snack thief and breaking a vase.
Parker, cleaning up the glass on his knees, after lifting me onto the kitchen counter.
Us, staring at each other. Me, still in his shirt.
Part of me hoped he would take pity on me and be gone before I got up.
But, as I inch out of the room, dressed again in that scratchy top and skirt, his shirt folded on top of the made bed, I hear the gentle chime of glass bowls clinking against each other. A light sizzle. And . . .
Bacon?
I walk into the kitchen, slowly, only to find Parker turned toward the stove, hand expertly around a pan’s handle.
He’s wearing a shirt now, thank goodness—yeah, right, who am I kidding?—and the same sweatpants from yesterday. As much as I’d like to admire his back muscles flexing as he flips something in the pan, my eyes go to something far less attractive.
A pasta-filled vase on the counter.
I freeze.
The same exact vase is sitting in the same exact place, and it’s even uglier in the summer light.
Panic races through me.
Has it returned from the dead to haunt me?
Did I have some weird dream about breaking it last night?
Can I see the future?
Parker turns around, and any fear of awkwardness I had anticipated between us after last night is put to rest. His face lights up, like he’s genuinely happy to see me. Maybe he’s relieved I didn’t choke on my vomit in my sleep. He looks slightly disheveled, even more so than after the gym. This is Parker Warren before he puts on his suit and smooths down his edges to face the rest of the world.
I stop by the edge of the counter and motion toward the pasta vessel that has decided to haunt me. “I was going to apologize again for breaking your mom’s vase, but . . . it’s been resurrected?” I press two fingers against my forehead, wincing at the pain pulsing behind it. “Did I—did I imagine last night?”
Last night.
His eyes slightly glaze over, like he’s remembering too. Me perched on the edge of the marble. Him between my knees. His hands on my waist—
“No,” he says, his voice just slightly deeper than usual. “It was part of a set.” I must look horrified at the idea that there were at least two of these in circulation, because he says, “You know, I’m starting to think you pushed the other one on purpose. If something happens to this one, I’ll really be suspicious.”
I almost smile. “Don’t worry, I’m not a pasta-vase serial killer. Just single homicide for me.” He flips something in the pan again, effortlessly. I realize now that he’s making an omelet with what looks like spinach and mushrooms and pieces of bacon. “What . . . what are you doing?”
“I’m making you breakfast.” He tilts the pan, and the omelet slides onto a plate. He looks up at me. “Please tell me you’re not one of those people that doesn’t eat breakfast.”
“Oh no, I eat breakfast,” I say. He looks relieved. “Just not vegetables.”
He looks horrified.
“Don’t you have a chef?”
He nods. “Normally, I do. But not for the summer.”
Right. This is his summer of normalcy. His summer of cosplaying as someone whose net worth isn’t equivalent to the GDP of a small country.
“So, you . . . learned to cook?”
“I learned when I was a teenager. My mom taught me. I was rusty, though, so you’re lucky you caught me with some practice. At the beginning of the summer, this would have been a sad scramble.”
The idea of Parker learning to cook when he was a teenager is at odds with whatever story I’ve already written for him in my head.
Maybe I don’t really know him.
He pushes the plate toward me. “I can make you something else if you don’t want it. Though I do think you should look into the concept of eating vegetables.”
I take the plate. He hands me a fork. “Yes, I have heard they’re good for you,” I say in mock seriousness.
“Essential to human life, some might say.”
Penelope says it’s a miracle I haven’t keeled over in front of my laptop by now. I’ve told her that it’s a miracle I haven’t gotten a new roommate after she’s killed three consecutive blenders by trying to make green juices at home.
I lean my hip against the kitchen island and stab a bite of omelet. Parker stands there, hands braced on his side of the counter, watching me.
“Aren’t you going to eat?”
He shakes his head. “Already did.”
I frown at the clock. It’s only just past nine. “How long have you been up?”
“Since six.” He motions toward the plate. I take a bite. He looks on expectantly, like he really does care what I think of what he made me.
“It’s good,” I say, taking another bite. “You know. For vegetables.”
He smiles, genuinely pleased with himself. He gets me a glass of water. I sit on one of the high stools at the counter and watch as he begins to do all the dishes.
“So?” he asks, when I’m done, and he’s taken my plate. “Does it look like your unit?” He motions around.
I shake my head. “No. And it’s not mine, it’s my sister’s.” I look around. “I like yours better, I think,” I say. “You have a sexy kitchen.” I really don’t know why I said that. I blame any lingering alcohol in my system.
He stills. Looks over at me. “A sexy kitchen?”
I nod. “Like, sex could happen. In this kitchen.” Oh my god, I need to just sell my voice like the Little Mermaid, so I never say anything like that again.
Parker only smiles. He’s bracing himself against the counter again. His arms are flexing in a way that makes my chest tighten. His eyes darken. “Is that a proposition?”
I think I forget to breathe. “No,” I say quickly, shaking my head. I can feel the heat spreading across my face. He looks amused. At his grin, I say, simply, “I take contracts very seriously. Even oral ones.” Why do I even bother talking?!
“Right. No sex. Almost forgot.”
I slide off the barstool. “Yep!” I chirp, hoping I look and sound more casual than I feel. I need to get out of here before I keep saying things that will inevitably be replaying in my head tonight in a sad anxiety reel. “Well, thanks again. For . . . taking me in. And for . . . feeding me!” I sound like a stray dog.
“Any time, Elle,” he says. I collect my heels from the doorway.
“Oh,” I say, the rest of the night collecting in pieces. “Emily broke up with Charles because he was selling stories about you.”
Parker doesn’t look too surprised that his suspicions turned out to be true.
“She told him if he went to the press about us, she would get him fired.”
He looks impressed. “I’ve always liked Emily.” His lips press together pensively. “So, we’ll need another way for our relationship to go public, then.”
“Fake relationship.”
He moves on as if I haven’t said anything. “We’ll need a highly publicized event. One with journalists and photographers.”
I frown. That sounds like my worst nightmare. Also, not common. “What kind of event like that happens in the summer?”
His eyes meet mine. They’re glittering with something. “How do you feel about art auctions?”
“My sister loves them.”
He seems surprised that I’ve offered him another little kernel of information. “Okay. What do you think of them?”
I don’t answer immediately, not the way I normally would. Instead, I pose myself the same question, as though I haven’t lived with this mind and body my entire life. What do I think of art auctions?
Art history has always fascinated me, though not as much as my sister. I took a class on it at Columbia as an elective, with Penelope. All I really know about auctions is what I’ve seen in movies: the ping-pong-looking paddles, the hushed phone calls from bidders around the world. It might be interesting to see.
This summer is about doing things outside of my comfort zone.
“Sounds fun,” I say, trying to make my tone convincing.
Parker looks a little surprised. “Have you ever heard of Christie’s?”