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He watches my finger with a burning in his eyes. Have I made him angry?
Unwilling to test my fake husband any further, I stick the cake in the fridge. His slight wince is my reward.
“Lock the door behind me,” Art says and walks out of the kitchen.
I follow and watch him exit the apartment, closing the door behind him.
I stare at it, the enormity of what’s just happened hitting me fully for the first time.
I’m going to live with Art.
Me. With the guy I’ve fantasized about.
Unbidden, a girlish, gleeful squeak escapes my lips.
I can’t believe this is happening.
It’s like a surreal dream.
Oh, and the cherry on top is I’m getting paid for this shit.
Before I can squeal again, the door opens.
“You didn’t lock it?” Art’s frown makes me take a step back. “You have to do it as soon as I leave.”
“Yes, dear. I’ll obey your every command, dear.”
His features soften. “Please, Lemon. This is Manhattan. You never know who might barge in.”
“Fine.” I finally notice what he’s holding: my PRIVATE box in one hand and the bag with my bed sheets in the other. My heart leaps. “I thought I told you not to touch that!”
“Sorry.” He puts the stuff on the floor. “Figured you might want to deal with whatever is inside.”
Before I can ask him to swear on his soul that he didn’t peek inside the box, he leaves again.
I stare at the bed sheets, my heartbeat speeding further.
They’re a physical reminder of a question I should’ve asked Art from the very beginning.
Where are we going to sleep? More importantly, will it be together? In one bed?
Surely not. He’ll probably take the couch. Or I will.
But what if we do sleep together?
This is getting so real so fast I feel like another squeak—or a squeal—is working its way out of my body.
I’d better busy myself with chores.
First things first. I scan the apartment for a place to stash my sex toys.
When I was a kid, I hid stuff from my sisters in a broken electrical outlet, but this place probably has them all working, and I don’t want to get electrocuted. The floor baseboards look sturdy as well, so no hiding stuff there either.
Maybe the oven?
No. I have no idea if Art likes to cook.
The freezer? But what if he wants to freeze some peas?
