The memory hits all at once—his chest bare, skin still slightly damp with sweat. A small black dachshund curved around his left pectoral, a funny little drawing I’d never seen before. It felt wildly out of place next to the brutal patterns and flowers inked across his arms and neck. His hair was pushed back from his forehead, and the fluorescent hallway lights threwsharp shadows along his jaw and down the hollow at the base of his throat.
Shit. Did I wake him up?
I stared. I know I did. And then I blurted it out—my ridiculous proposal.
He looked at me for what felt like forever, his expression impossible to read. “You’re drunk,” he finally said, his accent turning it into less of an observation and more of a verdict.
“Yes,” I agreed, because there was no point pretending otherwise. “But I’d ask the same thing sober. I’d just be less…direct.”
I don’t remember what he said to that. There’s a gap there. But I do remember him sighing and saying, “Go to bed, Noah. We’ll talk tomorrow.” And then he closed the door right in front of my face.
And now here he is, on the other side of mine.
Probably to tell me what an idiot I am. Or to report me to the landlord for harassment. Do they evict people for drunkenly propositioning their neighbors? Probably not. But maybe they make exceptions for especially pathetic cases.
“Noah?” Another knock, softer this time. “I can come back later if you’re still asleep.”
I drag a hand through my hair, which does nothing to improve it, and step toward the door. The pounding in my head flares as I reach for the knob.
Okay. I can do it.
I take a deep breath, which is a mistake, because it makes me painfully aware of how badly I need a shower. I smell like I bathed in cheap tequila. It’s too late to fix that now, though.
I open the door, squinting against the brighter hallway light, and there he is—Connor O’Reilly. Fully dressed this time, wearing gray joggers and a faded black T-shirt that does absolutely nothing to hide the muscle underneath. He looks fresh and unfairly put together while I stand here resembling something the cat dragged in, chewed up, and threw up for good measure.
“Hi,” I manage weakly, my brain scrambling for what to say next. How exactly does one apologize for drunkenly offering to pay someone to pretend to be in love with them?
Connor looks at me, his face expressionless, and simply says, “Hi.”
“Look, about last night,” I start, my throat dry. “I was drunk. I shouldn’t have come over and said any of that. It was inappropriate, and I’m really sorry.”
Connor’s slate-colored eyes stay on me, unblinking, and something about his gaze reminds me of Rick. Not the features—Rick’s eyes are hazel, almost golden in certain light—but the way they both look at me like they can see straight through whatever I’m trying to hide.
The twist in my chest tightens, and before I can stop it, I’m back in Rick’s penthouse, morning light spilling over rumpled sheets. His fingers tracing lazy patterns on my bare shoulder, his voice a whisper against my ear.
“I wish we could stay like this,” he said, and I believed him. Believed every syllable, every pause between the words. “Just you and me. Nothing else.”
But there was always something else. His family’s expectations. The Scott investment banking legacy stretching back three generations. The carefully cultivated image of Richard Scott, heir apparent, who dated the right women, attended the right events, and never, ever mentioned that he spent every Tuesday and Thursday night tangled in sheets with Noah Caldwell, the gay son of Daniel Caldwell, founder of Caldwell Holdings. The son who chose to work for a nonprofit instead of stepping into the empire.
For three years, I lived for those nights. For the stolen moments in his car. In darkened restaurants in neighborhoods where no one would recognize him. In hotel rooms paid for in cash. For the way he looked at me when no one else was watching, as though I was the only real thing in his carefully constructed world.
“Dad wants me to date Melissa,” he told me one night, his face pressed into the pillow.
I turned toward him. “I thought you told him you weren’t dating.”
He nodded, like he hated it. “I told him I needed to focus on work, but he doesn’t want to hear it. So I might need to…date her. Just for a bit.”
“Are you serious?”
His hand stilled on my hip. “Noah, you know it’s just for pretense. I love you. I just can’t come out. Not now. It’s too complicated.”
Complicated. That was the word he always used. Our relationship: complicated. His sexuality: complicated. The possibility of a future together so complicated it might as well have been written in hieroglyphics.
And then, six months ago, the text message. After years of whatever we were. After months of me pretending it was fine that he kissed girls for the cameras and introduced me as a friend.
Three sentences I can still recite from memory:
I can’t do this anymore. It’s not fair to either of us. I’m sorry, Noah, but I can’t be gay.
