“Wait,” Panic flares, though I can’t explain why. She just told me she believes me, and she seems to mean it. So why do I feel like the floor’s dropping out from under me?
Your behavior last night, moron.
“Wait,” I repeat, calmer. “Just one more thing.”
She nods then sits down again, folding her hands on her knees. “Can I ask you something?”
“Yes, of course,” I say probably a little too eagerly. “Anything.”
She exhales, starts, then stops. “This is more than a little embarrassing.”
“Is it about last night?” I ask with a grimace.
Surprise flickers across her face before she presses on. “Look, we both know I’m not the type of girl you date. Maybe if you’d had more time, you could have found someone who fits your…profile.”
My nausea is back. “Finley, I was out of line?—”
“It’s okay,” she says quickly, too quickly, though maybe it’s my paranoia. “I wasn’t applying to be your real girlfriend, and we just confirmed a few seconds ago that we’re both getting what we want out of the deal.”
I nod slowly, but the sick feeling in my stomach doesn’t ease.
“When you were just a customer at Beans to Go…”
Her voice trails off, and I want to say something—anything—to make this less awkward for her, but I’m the one who caused the awkwardness, and I don’t know how to fix it.
“When you were a customer,” she says again with a tight smile, “we got along pretty well, right? You seemed to like me as a person.”
“Yeah. I did.” The understatement feels ridiculous. It’s like calling the Mississippi River a stream. “I do.”
She nods, looks away, then glances back to me. “So maybe we can just agree to be friends. No expectations of anything else. That way you don’t have to worry about me getting the wrong idea, and I can relax and not worry you’ll try to seduce me. We have to pretend to be involved, so this way we acknowledge it’s pretend and not read anything into it.”
It takes me a beat to process her words. She’s simply restating our agreement—our legal contract—so why does it feel so disconcerting to agree with her? I have to, though. This is what she needs, and it’s what I wanted too.
“Yes,” I say. “I think that’s a good idea. But I’ll be honest—I’d like to think we’re actually friends, even with just the coffee shop interactions. I don’t need to pretend I like you, because I already do.” Then I hastily add. “As a friend.”
Her face softens into a small smile. “You didn’t need to add the ‘as a friend.’ That’s a given at this point.”
We sit in a short silence before she says, “You said you wanted to talk about something else?”
“Yeah.” I run a hand over my head, unsettled in a way I can’t remember feeling around a woman. “I wanted to say I’m sorry about last night,” I grimace. “Understatement. I’m sorry for coming in drunk. You were more than kind to help me, especially cleaning up my knee.”
Something flickers in her eyes. “You remember that, huh?”
“It’s a bit fuzzy, but yeah.” I gesture to the bowl still on the nightstand. “You even found the barf bowl.”
She laughs, a genuine one, even if it’s a little reserved. “You have a barf bowl?”
“No one wanted Mom using a bowl someone puked in for food, so yeah. We had a designated bowl.”
“I found it in the pantry. Lucky guess.” She hesitates, then says, “I accept your apology. So, if there’s nothing else…” She rises, already turning toward the door.
I stand too. “Finley, one more thing.”
She pauses.
“Where did you sleep last night?”
Her shoulders ease. “I slept in the chair, which was actually more comfortable than I expected.”
