Chapter Thirteen
Dean
The good news is that Kimberly and Nia are having such a great time they begged us for a tour of the U Street Corridor, which conveniently ended at Sip City.
The even better news is that Peter and Molly passed on joining us.
The bad news is that I can’t seem to focus on anything but Solange.
The even worse news is that the women just trotted off to the karaoke room, and before they left, they announced that if I dare to enter, I should be prepared to get up onstage too. But that’s the kind of shit Max would do, not me.
After squeezing my way to the counter, I spot Brandon.
He points to the end of the bar, and I meet him there. Like clockwork, he slides me a stool so I can claim a space that’s blessedly free of anyone on my left. “Thanks, man.”
“No problem. You look like you need to be put in the time-out corner anyway.”
It’s unclear whether he’s suggesting I’m acting like a child, but I’m not going to press for an explanation because I’m coming to him for salvation, and I don’t want to give him an excuse to refuse me. “I need tequila. Lots of it. Served as shots, please.”
Brandon leans against the counter and tilts his head as he considers me. “I thought you said tequila’s your Kryptonite.”
I meet his gaze and give him a “no shit” expression. “It is.”
He taps the bar counter with a closed fist and straightens. “Understood. Be right back.”
Solange, who had a head start on cocktails at Axe & Snacks, comes out of nowhere and jostles me. “Hey, what are you doing out here?” With a glass in hand, she points behind her to the karaoke room’s neon sign. “Your guests are in there.”
She’s being so damn cheerful. Meanwhile, I’m tamping down the urge to growl at everyone because I want something I shouldn’t—namely, her. “Just needed a moment,” I say, remaining hunched over so I’m not forced to meet her eyes. “I’ll join you soon.”
Brandon appears again—without my damn tequila.
Solange raises her glass in his direction, her mouth curved into a wicked smile. “This isn’t one of your better concoctions, my friend.”
Brandon purses his lips at her, but his eyes are noticeably brighter now that she’s around. “Hey, if you can’t say anything nice—”
“Then you’re a bitch, and you may as well own it,” she finishes for him.
They high-five and stick their tongues out at each other before collapsing into laughter.
It’s clear that Brandon and Solange are close. Really close. They complete each other’s sentences. Share inside jokes. Bump shoulders when they’re standing side by side. I’m zero percent jealous of their rapport. But I’ll confess to being envious of it. And it’s worrisome as hell that I want to have that kind of bond with Solange at all.
“Okay, Chapman,” she says, bouncing on her toes. “I’ll entertain Kimberly and Nia while you consult with Brandon about whatever’s troubling you.” She slides her empty glass toward Brandon, spins in my direction, and taps me on the nose. “Don’t take too long.”
Brandon steps away with Solange’s empty glass and returns with a slim wood tray designed to hold liquor shots. “I’m guessing whatever’s troubling you is Solange.”
My gaze snaps to his face. The amused expression is hard to miss. “Wrong.”
“You sure about that?” Brandon asks.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s just that I’ve been watching you, and you probably didn’t even realize it, because you’ve been watching Solange this whole time.”
“Have I?” I readjust my position on the stool and massage my neck. “It’s probably just a trick of the lighting.”
“Riiiight,” he says, setting one of the shot glasses in front of me. “Maybe this isn’t my place, but you seem like a decent guy, and I know from Solange that you’ve had a rough time of it, seeing as you just broke up with your fiancée.”
This conversation is making me want to fidget, and I don’t fucking fidget for anyone. I’m not surprised they talked about me. After all, they live together, and he knows Solange and I are fake dating. Still, it’s not knowing exactly what was said that makes me uncomfortable. And I can already predict the gist of what he’s going to say. “Are you about to warn me not to get any ideas about Solange? Because if you are, you can stop while you’re ahead. The warning’s unnecessary.”
“So you’re telling me you have no interest in her.”
I take the first shot and slam the glass on the counter. “That’s exactly what I’m telling you. We’re platonic friends.”
He laughs. “Solange and I are platonic friends. You two”—he gestures at me dismissively—“are something else. I’m just trying to figure out what that something else is exactly.”
My blunder becomes apparent as soon as he attends to another patron’s order: By being so adamant that he was misjudging the situation, I deprived myself of hearing whatever it is he was about to say, and now I really, really want to hear his take on why I should avoid Solange at all costs. I’m going to look like a schmuck, but screw it—I’ll live.
When he’s done ringing up another customer, I lift a finger in the air to get his attention again. “Okay, just so we’re clear: You are way off the mark, but now I’m intrigued. What were you going to say?”
He twists his mouth as he watches me, as if he’s both amused by my bluff and unsure how much he should disclose. Eventually, he nods to himself and shares a whole hell of a lot. “You can’t half-ass anything with Solange. Not your friendship, not your opinions, and especially not your emotions. If you intend to play games, do that shit elsewhere. She deserves someone who’s going to love her fiercely, so unless you think you can be that person someday, there’s no point in going down that road.”
Well, hell. Talk about putting me in my place. The weird part is, more than anything, I’m glad Solange has Brandon in her corner. But his warning still stings. And yeah, okay, it’s the reality check I needed. “Is that why you’ve never made a move on her?”
He gives me a sly smile. “How do you know I haven’t?”
That piece of information makes me sit up straighter, even though I know it shouldn’t. I take my second shot and grimace as the tequila slides down my throat.
“Something wrong, Dean?” he asks as if it’s an innocent question even though he knows damn well it isn’t.
“Are you fucking with me?” I ask.
He taps my arm and nods. “I am.”
“You two do that a lot.”
“That’s why Solange and I get along,” he says, looking smug and so assured of his role in her life.
“How’d you meet her?”
“High school detention,” he says. “I was a class clown. She refused to wear the gym uniform and organized a protest among her classmates. We were a match made in heaven despite our age difference.”
So Solange was a rabble-rouser; that doesn’t surprise me at all.
“Does she date?” I ask.
“That’s a question for Solange. I’ll just say this: I seriously believe if she finds herself in another bad relationship, she’ll agree to marry me as her final resort.” He dons this pensive expression, then glances at me before adding, “She tell you we’re heading to Vegas in a couple of weeks for my birthday?”
I throw back the third shot. “I think she mentioned something about that in passing.”
He taps his chin and twists his lips back and forth. “You know, it occurs to me: That could be the perfect place to pop the question.” He laughs. “Friends getting married for convenience—it’s what all the millennials are doing these days.”
I wouldn’t go that far, but yeah, isn’t that what I was trying to do with Ella? In fact, the idea that Solange would marry Brandon because he checks all the boxes except one comes directly from the pages of my own master plan. I can see it happening, even if I know it’s not the right outcome for someone who obviously wants to find long-lasting love. Still, the way Brandon’s staring, I can tell he’s just trying to get a rise out of me.
“Cut the bullshit, Brandon. I know you want more for Solange than that. You said it yourself: A guy only stands a chance with her if he’s as committed to her as she is to him.”
“You misunderstand, Dean,” he says, picking up a dish towel and wiping the counter. “A guy only stands a chance if he can love her the way she deserves to be loved. Period. But no such man has ever brightened our door. And given your recent history, I doubt you’re going to be the exception.”
I force out a laugh. What a ridiculous conversation. “Brandon, I’m not trying to be the exception.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Then why are we talking about this?”
That’s an excellent fucking question. Because one thing I know is this: Solange and I are about as mismatched as any two people can be.
One, she’s committed to helping others, wherever that may take her; I’m committed to volunteering, sure, but achieving financial security and planting roots here in DC is my primary focus. Hell, come next month, she’ll probably be in Ohio, then who the hell knows where else.
Two, I’m looking for someone who’ll embrace the idea of being one half of a professional power couple; Solange would be miserable attending even one of the firm events I’m obliged to attend each year, and I wouldn’t want to put her through that anyway. I mean, she once likened hanging out with lawyers to getting a gynecology exam and root canal on the same day. Enough said.
Three, and most important, she wants someone who’s so in love with her they’ll follow her to the ends of the earth; I’m searching for a person who’s pragmatic enough to accept that love doesn’t always have to be the endgame.
I square my shoulders and take my final shot, welcoming the burn in my chest and the haziness in my brain. This is nice. Real nice. “Can I get another round, please?”
Brandon shakes his head. “Sorry, no. That’s your fourth shot, and in case you forgot, the reason you and Solange are fake dating is because you’re supposed to be schmoozing those women in there.”
Dammit. He’s right. Why is it so hard to focus on closing the deal, as she put it? Because your attraction to Solange is clouding your judgment, that’s why. Well, no more. We are, and always will be, platonic friends. From here on out, I’m guaranteeing it.
* * *
Inside the karaoke room, Solange makes a show of tossing back her glass of water as though it’s tequila, then slams the glass on the table. “All right, people.” She points to the stage. “Who’s going up there?”
Nia shimmies in her seat. “I’m game!”
Kimberly rolls her eyes. “I’ll pass.”
Nia isn’t satisfied with that answer, however, and slides closer to Kimberly on the bench, giving her puppy-dog eyes and pouting. “Please.”
“Ugh, how can I resist that face?”
Nia bats her eyes in triumph and throws her arms around Kimberly; they truly are a sweet couple.
“Oooh, can all three of us do something together?” Solange asks.
Nia and Kimberly nod enthusiastically, then the three women rush up to the stage, their arms linked as if they’re old friends. Solange turns back and yells: “Watch our drinks, Dean!”
Wide-eyed and smiling, they sift through the pages of a plastic binder, presumably containing their song options. Minutes later, I spy Solange and Nia conversing with the emcee, a short white guy in a black leather vest and jeans.
Solange walks up to the mic. “We’re dedicating this to a friend in the audience. Dean, this one’s for you.”
The house lights go down, and the spotlights land on the women, all of whom are frozen in Charlie’s Angels poses.
Shit. I don’t think I’m ready for this jelly.
The music starts, and I immediately recognize the song: Ariana Grande’s “Thank U, Next.” When it first came out, the admins in our office played the clean version in the lunchroom as if it were their new anthem—until someone played the explicit version and the all-firm email advised that only music played through personal headsets would be permitted going forward.
Back then, it seemed like nothing more than a woman’s savage (and appropriate) takedown of her exes. Listening to it now, I realize the song is about learning from your failed relationships, and I’m wondering what lesson these women think I should learn from my breakup with Ella. Doesn’t matter. The main takeaway from the Ella shitshow is that I was right: Turning your life upside down over love is a fool’s errand.
Still, the audience is enjoying the show, and when Solange, Kimberly, and Nia are done, several people stand and clap for them. A few customers even whistle to show their praise, and the women gleefully bask in the well-deserved attention.
The trio stumbles back to our table, laughing the entire way.
“Outstanding, ladies,” I say. “Outstanding.”
“Anyone else?” Solange asks, looking directly at me. “Or we could do a deep dive into the meaning of that song and how you can apply it to your own experiences, Dean.”
Faced with the choice of either embarrassing myself onstage or listening to these women dissect my dating life, I ask myself a familiar question: What would Max do? The devil in my ear (who’s especially fond of making a fool of me) knows the answer and prods my shoulder with a pitchfork. I jump up. “I’ll do it!”
“Seriously?” Solange asks, her eyes wide. “This, I must see.”
Nia pumps her fist. “You. Are. The. Best. Host. Ever!” She stumbles a bit, then plops onto her chair, the skin on her face and neck flushing in a striped pattern.
“I think that’s our cue to leave, unfortunately,” Kimberly says. “Nia’s not a heavy drinker, and that flush on her skin is a warning sign. We’ll see you two at the party tomorrow.”
I’m glad Peter’s not here to see any of this. First thing Monday morning, he’d give the partners a twenty-minute oral report on tonight’s events and cast me as a villain.
After saying our goodbyes and seeing Kimberly and Nia off, Solange and I return to the karaoke room.
Solange purses her lips and gestures to the stage. “Well? I’m waiting.”
Damn. She’s really not going to let this go, huh?
Before I can lose my nerve, I squeeze my way to the stage and place my name on the wait list. I’m too buzzed to read the binder of song titles, so I motion the emcee over.
“I’d like to do ‘Pony’ by Ginuwine. The one from Magic Mike.”
The emcee draws back and looks me up and down. “Seriously?”
What’s up with that? Do I not look like the kind of guy who will tear up a rendition of “Pony”? “Yes, seriously.”
He throws up his hands as if he’s backing off. “Sorry. I just figured that’s a little dance-heavy.”
“Don’t worry about it. I can hold my own.”
“You get to skip the queue, then,” he says, shaking his head, a cheesy grin on his face.
I hop onto the stage and immediately zero in on Solange’s husky voice egging me on.
“Woohoo,” she yells from her place at the table. “Sing like you mean it.”
Oh, I will. Don’t you worry about that, Solange.
A spotlight lands on me, and the song’s opening bars vibrate through the room. I sing the first line about being a bachelor looking for a partner. Everyone goes wild. My body takes over, buoyed along by the hum of the crowd, the fire in my belly, and the heat from the stage lights. It’s as if Channing Tatum himself is in the audience and I don’t want to disappoint him. A woman at a table up front walks up to the stage and slaps a dollar bill on the platform. Maybe the alcohol’s messing with me, but I regard that as a challenge and accept it like the Magic Mike protégé I’ve always wished to be. I place the microphone back in its cradle, unbutton my shirt, and toss it into the crowd.
Then the lights go out, and Big Dean starts to grind.
Solange
Is. This. Happening?
Dean is onstage reenacting Channing Tatum’s provocative performance of “Pony” in Magic Mike, and I am enthralled. He’s gyrating, thrusting, and humping like a pro, his nuanced portrayal of the troubled stripper who finds himself standing at professional and personal crossroads that threaten to . . . never mind.
Jesus, Dean has rhythm, and a very fine ass (not America’s ass, mind you, but respectable nonetheless). My nipples are sufficiently intrigued by this newfound information and pucker at attention; admittedly, their standards are low these days—a strong gust of wind would also do the trick—but nonetheless, they’re delighted with the upgrade.
Does Dean realize where he is? Does he remember who he is? Surely, he’s having an out-of-body experience. Granted, the body he’s in right now is uh-ma-zing, but this spectacle onstage doesn’t match up with how he usually behaves in public—the man’s hair is out of place, for God’s sake.
Then again, he’s been acting out of character all evening, starting with his flirty behavior at Axe & Snacks. That comment about having a good reason to be too cocky? Come. On. I’m surprised I didn’t burn up and turn to ash on the spot. There’s only so much attraction I should be forced to fight in a single night.
I follow his movements on the stage like I’m tracking a target with a sniper’s rifle. On the outside, I’m acting as though Dean’s bare chest is nothing new to me, but inside I’m flailing. He’s neither massive nor ripped. But he’s a presence, the V-shape of his swimmer’s torso making it difficult for my greedy gaze to decide where it wants to land. And who gave Dean the right to possess lats that wide? Use those wings to fly to me, baby. Fly.
Dean grabs the microphone off the stand and drops to the ground. Pretending the mic is a power drill, he slides up and down on his knees as he drives imaginary screws into the stage floor. He’s been killing it this whole performance, but after that move, consider me murdered.
Letting out a shameless whimper, I slide down in my chair. A woman nearby uses the bar’s laminated cocktail menu to fan my face.
I’m calling it right now—time of death: 9:42 p.m.
As I wait for the coroner’s office to process my body, Dean jumps off the stage and his adoring fans circle him, their earsplitting cheers filling the room. After soaking up his well-earned adoration and slipping his shirt back on, he jogs up to the table and drops into the chair Nia abandoned a few minutes ago. “Was it too much?” He bares his teeth sheepishly as he waits for me to answer.
“No, it was just right, Goldilocks. I mean, what the hell got into you?”
“Four tequila shots and that Rusty Nail from earlier got into me. That’s a lot of hard liquor for this little ol’ body.”
“And yet you were able to maintain your coordination. How lucky for us all.”
Smiling, he reaches around me and swipes a napkin off the table, then pats his forehead dry. “Seriously, though, what did you think?”
“Honestly? I was distracted by the lyrics. Like, who the hell has a pony these days? Not only is it crass to boast that you have a pony, but also it’s unfair to indiscriminately offer it up for a joyride.” I let out a deep sigh. “Who’s protecting the ponies here?”
Dean throws his head back and bites down on a laugh.
The long column of his neck is so lickable. Gah. It’s time to get out of here; if I stay any longer, I’m going to end up asking him for a ride on his pony, and I truly doubt I’d ever want to get off. “I think I’m going to check in with Brandon. His shift ends soon. He said he would walk home with me.”
Dean sits up and his expression cools. “Of course. Sure. I need to use the restroom anyway.” Then he slowly rises from the chair. “I’ll see you at the party tomorrow.”
I give him a goofy-ass salute. “I’ll be there.”
“Good,” he says, nodding once.
As I watch Dean leave the karaoke room, I sway to the music, pretending I’m completely unaffected by him even though that couldn’t be further from the truth. From here on out, I should be addressed as Solange of House Pereira, the Worst of Her Name, Queen of the Liars, Breaker of Vows, and Mother of Bad Ideas. I’m trying to resist my attraction for him, though. God, I’m really, really trying.
I drag my pathetic butt back to the main bar and claim a seat. An attractive Latinx man immediately tries to snag the spot next to mine, his gaze zeroed in on me. I’m not in the mood for conversation, so I whip out my hand to stop him. “It’s taken, sorry.”
“Are you?” he asks with a nod and a wink. “Taken, I mean.”
Gross. As I prepare to deliver a monologue on the vestiges of patriarchal values and their unfitness in modern American society, Dean slides onto the empty stool and swivels mine around so that I’m facing him. It’s a lot to take in. His flushed skin. The damp hair around his temples. The way his shoulders rise each time he takes an unsteady breath. I tell myself he’s still experiencing the effects of being onstage, but I know there’s more to his demeanor than that.
His piercing gaze leaves no doubt that I’m his sole focus, and for a moment I forget that dozens of people are in the vicinity, the sounds of clinking glasses and raucous conversation fading to a dim hum. He studies my mouth, then returns my stare, a silent question in his eyes.
Our safe phrase tumbles out of my mouth far too easily. As though I’ve been waiting for the perfect excuse to use it. “You can’t help yourself, can you?”
“No, I can’t,” he says roughly, his chest heaving as he slides his legs out to make room for me to fit between them.
I lean over and place my hands on the tops of his thighs; within seconds, Dean’s kissing me. Maybe he meant it to be chaste. Just a brief meeting of our lips simply to signal to my unwelcome admirer that I’m not alone. But that’s not what this is.
Holy shit, that is far from what this is.
He traces his soft lips across mine, then angles his head to deepen the kiss, emitting a low rumble in his throat that sounds like he’s begging for more. In answer, I splay my hand across his jaw and tangle my tongue with his, my ass rising off the stool to bring us even closer. There’s heat everywhere. Radiating off him. Off me. Surrounding us. Dean snakes a hand around my neck and under my hair, holding me steady in a loose grip that makes me ache to stroke him. Not here but somewhere close enough that we wouldn’t need to separate our bodies to get there. His fingers press against the back of my skull, massaging it, and I shudder against him.
“I feel it too,” he murmurs against my lips, then he grazes my jaw with his teeth.
Oh God. My chest fills with air, like a balloon filling, filling, filling, and straining to burst, tight from the pressure of holding myself in check in a public place. This moment? I never want it to end.
But it does, of course.
Someone in the bar whoops—whether at us or the images on the large-screen TV overhead, I’m not sure. Dean and I spring apart, our breathing slow and heavy, the longing in his gaze surely mirroring mine.
“One water for Dean and a Blackberry Jam for the self-saboteur,” Brandon says, his eyes dancing with mischief.
In my mind, I shoot laser beams at my friend, and he disintegrates to dust. From here on out, I’m addressing him as Brandon of House Harris, the Worst of His Name, King of the Traitors, Breaker of Balls, and Father of Cockblockers.
As Brandon makes a big show of placing beverage napkins on the counter, Dean and I right ourselves, the pickup artist who started us down this path long gone.
After taking two large gulps of water, Dean peers inside his glass as if it’s an aquarium and he’s searching for marine life within its depths. Is he as gobsmacked by the intensity of that kiss as I am?
Wait. What am I doing? How is this productive? I’m looking for someone who’s all in. Dean’s the kind of man who prides himself on being all out. Encouraging anything other than platonic friendship with him would be the baddest of bad decisions. So it’s obvious what I need to do here. Drawing a deep breath, I shake out my arms. “Thanks for the rescue, Chapman. I’ve got to hand it to you, that was very convincing. Your acting skills are improving by the day.”
His thumb pauses on the glass, then he stands and raps on the bar counter twice. “Right. It helps that I’m a quick learner. Glad I could be of service.” He doesn’t even glance at me before he takes off. “Enjoy the rest of your night, Solange.”
“Take care, Dean,” I call after him.
Then I drop my head on the bar. That didn’t feel good. Or right. But it felt safe. And when it comes to Dean, safe is what I’m aiming for. I want to get out of this arrangement unscathed. And if that means I need to pretend my and Dean’s kiss was a means to an end rather than a tantalizing glimpse of how explosive we could be together, so be it.
Dean
“What are you doing here? Didn’t you see the No Loitering sign?”
When I get home from Sip City, Max is lounging on a bench in front of my building, wearing basketball shorts and a white T-shirt that’s seen better days, as if he threw on whatever was on the floor of his bedroom to come over.
“This is a reconnaissance mission,” he says, rising to his feet. “Solange isn’t answering her text messages, so I’ve been ordered to return with answers, and I mean to comply.”
“Lina’s issuing orders now? Where’s your pride?”
He shrugs. “I’m whipped, man. And I couldn’t care less what you think about it.”
His moony expression tells only a tiny fraction of the story that led him to fall for his older brother’s ex-fiancée. Not all of it was pretty, but I can’t argue with the result: My best friend looks happy. I truly hope he stays that way.
Blowing out a breath, I stride past him and hold the door open. “You’re not staying long. I need to go into the office tomorrow.”
Max shakes his head. “On a Saturday? There’s more to life than work, you know.”
“Actually, right now, there isn’t. I’ll get to the good stuff later.”
I’ve relied on myself for a long time. My job helped me buy this place. Allowed me to pay off my loans. Gave me something to do. Without it, I’m not sure where I’d be. Max’s mother is also his employer; he can’t possibly know what it’s like to have a boss who doesn’t care whether he succeeds or fails. So, yeah, I’m keeping my head down and focusing on the one thing that’ll secure my place at Olney: partnership. Vacations, hanging out on the weekends, dating, starting a family—all of that will happen in due time.
We take the stairs rather than wait for the notoriously slow elevator.
“How are the fake dates going?” Max asks behind me as I open the door to my condo. “Is Solange dazzling them?”
I drop my keys in the bowl on the credenza, flip the lights on, and toe off my shoes. “She’s amazing, man. Engaging and supportive. Gets along with the women. And best of all, Peter doesn’t intimidate her.” Max tries to walk past me, but I block him with my outstretched arm. “Shoes.”
He grimaces while he removes them. “These new floors are making you an extra pain in the ass.” Grumbling, he strides to the kitchen and pokes his head in the fridge. “Grapes, dude? Seriously? Where’s the cake? The leftover pizza?”
“At the grocery store, you schmuck.”
He sucks his teeth, then straightens. “So that’s it? You’re done fake dating Solange?”
I blow out a harsh breath. If only. “Nope, still two more dates to go. We’re taking them to a party tomorrow. Some exclusive event in Adams Morgan.”
He crosses the room and flops onto my couch. “Okay, then. You’re almost there. Why aren’t you happier about it?”
“Solange and I kissed tonight,” I blurt out.
And I can still taste her lips on mine.
And I can still hear her breathy moans of encouragement.
And I can still feel her sensuous curves molding to my body.
She may as well be in this room. Fuck.
Max sits up, his expression blank. “Okay, and . . . ? You’re pretending to be a couple. You both knew a peck on the lips would be a possibility, right?”
I fall back onto a kitchen stool and sigh. “It wasn’t a peck, and it had nothing to do with fake dating. Some guy was hitting on her at the bar, so we played it off like we were together.” I rake a hand through my hair. “Honestly, the kiss wasn’t necessary. It’s just . . . I wanted to, and so did she. But I’m worried that I overstepped. Or misread what was happening and now it’s going to be awkward between us.”
Max crosses his arms over his chest and studies me for a long moment. “You’re being too hard on yourself, D. She’s human, and so are you. You’re doing couple shit. Being cozy. Touching each other here and there. Stuff like that can mess with your brain.” He tilts his head and peers at me. Hard. “Wait. You’re not catching feelings for her, are you?”
“Of course not.”
But I can’t say I’m totally unaffected.
“Good,” he says, nodding. “Then pretend it never happened and make sure you limit your interactions with her for these next two dates. Don’t be an asshole, of course, but don’t go out of your way to be overly affectionate either. That should be easy enough, right?”
I lick my lips. Which immediately makes me think of hers. “Right.”
Wrong.
He brings his hands together in a single clap and jumps up from the sofa. “Excellent. My work here is done, then. And since you don’t have any good munchies, I’m gone.”
“You bastard,” I say, clutching the front of my shirt. “I always knew you were just using me.”
“Glad we could finally get that out in the open,” he says, wearing a smirk as he puts on his sneaks.
I stride to the door and point to the hall. “Out.”
He stops in front of me, grabs my chin, and squeezes it. “When am I going to see this gorgeous face again? I miss it.”
I roll my eyes and push him past the threshold. “Basketball. Thursday. Now go.”
“Remember, it’s fake dating. Be sure to keep it that way.” Then he saunters down the hall and pushes open the stairwell door.
It’s in my nature to give Max a hard time, but I appreciate the reminder. Because as much as I hate to admit it, I needed one.