“Did you think I took baths with them?”
He shakes his head, then scratches his jaw. “No, actually, I didn’t…”
But he doesn’t finish. He lets the sentence die awkwardly. Like this night is ending awkwardly. With me talking about a weird, random hobby of mine.
“Anyway, I’m good to go,” he says, looping the tie around his neck, but he doesn’t knot it.
“I’m sorry,” I say, since I clearly can’t leave this well enough alone. Being the asshole, that is.
He shrugs, like he’s exonerating me. “We’re all good.”
But are we?
I want to ask, but we’re not at theare we okaystage. We’re not at any stage. But I don’t like where we’re at, that’s for sure. “Sawyer, it’s just…we got the job, and we need to focus on that.”
His stony expression disappears, and a smile, almost conciliatory, appears in its place. “We are one hundred percent on the same page, Chloe.”
“We are?” My voice pitches up.
“Absolutely,” he says. “It was a mistake, but we’ll put it behind us, go back to work, and be professionals because we’re working together on this show, and you can juggle your ducks, and I can…wear anything but jeans.”
Juggle my ducks.
It feels like a slap. His words feel like a slap.
Maybe we’re both assholes.
“Sure. Of course.” I walk him to the door, then gesture to Captain, who’s curled up on a dog bed in the corner of the living room, watching this scene play out with something like amusement in his dog eyes, like of course we’d fuck up something so basic as fucking. “Thanks for taking the dog out.”
“Thanks for the condom.”
On that bizarre thank-you, he leaves, striding down my steps late at night with his tie undone. Looking far too sexy for my own good.
As he hops into the car, I stand here on my porch, the streetlamps casting a soft glow on him as the engine hums to life.
I have a strange urge to blow a kiss, wave goodbye, or do something silly like lift my shirt, tug down my bra, and flash him my tits.
I want it with an intensity I didn’t expect. Like flashing Sawyer feels like something he’d appreciate. Something I’d do. Something that would be our thing.
But I think about that email we got tonight. The job on the show. This might be the break I’ve been looking for. The chance to finally make it. Not just live off the generosity of my father and his boyfriend. To not get a job because of my ex-husband. To not be sabotaged because of a lover.
Something tightens in my chest painfully. Or maybe it’s this unexpected feeling of whiplash from wanting to do something girlfriend-y to fearing sabotage. I feel all twisted instead of satisfied.
Especially since the more I get to know Sawyer and the more I let him in, the more he could do the very same to me—hurt me.
And I’ve been down and out for a while now.
It’s best that I deny that impulse to run back inside, grab the rubber ducks, and show him how I can juggle them. Who really cares?
They’re just rubber ducks.
I head inside, shut the door, and let out a long sigh. I trudge to the coffee table, pick up a trio of yellow ducks, and toss one, two, three in the air.
Then I juggle them. Alone. And it only sort of calms me down.
* * *
The next morning, when I trot down the steps and head to the passenger side door, I stop short with my fingers on the handle.
