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“Rosie?” Lina called. “You okay in there?”
I gave her another shake.
“Yeah,” Rosie answered, averting her eyes. “Some guy spilled a drink on me. I was cleaning up.”
“Oh no, that sucks. Did you manage okay or do you need me to get in and help—”
“No!” Rosie yelled, still looking somewhere to my left. “It’s all under control.”
Her cheeks had turned a deep shade of pink at some point. Probably when I’d been groping at her like the desperate bastard I was.
“Is Lucas waiting outside, then?” Lina chuckled. “He’s not hiding in there with you or something, right?”
Rosie seemed thrown off by the comment, and I understood. I really did. Lina had made it perfectly clear how she felt about the possibility of Rosie and me together.
I shook my head for her. Even if I hated to do that.
“No,” Rosie said with a fake laugh. “Us in a stall would be crazy! And stupid.”
My stomach soured at her words, but I picked up the gown from the floor, where it had ended when I’d pounced on her, and I helped her in in silence.
Only when she was dressed and zipped up did she meet my gaze again.
I could tell she was doing her best to hide how she felt about all of this, which wasn’t good, but as much as I didn’t like it myself, I had no choice but to mouth,You go first. I’ll wait.
With a nod, she left the stall and joined my cousin. I heard their steps as they made their way out. Leaving me to my own thoughts while I waited to leave, long enough so I wouldn’t get caught.
Get caught.
Never in my life had I let anybody sway my actions. Never allowed the world, or their opinions, to dictate how I lived. Who I befriended, dated, or fucked. I’d never cared enough. And I didn’t care what Lina would think of Rosie and me.
I cared about Rosie.
About her trust, and about our friendship. I wanted to do right by her. I wanted her to have everything she deserved. Because she deservedeverything, as much as that wasn’t me.
Because you’re leaving, I reminded myself.
Yeah. That, too.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Rosie
Aweek after the Masquerade Ball party, two things had become clear.
The first was that as much as I thought it would, what had gone down between Lucas and me in that bathroom stall hadn’t changed anything between us.
His smiles hadn’t grown smaller or fewer in number. Our routine was still the same: he cooked for me every night and I watched him from my post at the kitchen island. After dinner, we binged on our show, and when we slipped in bed—and couch—he asked me how many words I’d written that day, and I asked him to tell me something about his day.
His answers usually included something funny or strange he had seen or experienced that day, and mine a decent word count.
Finally.
Because I was writing. Our experiment, our research, even if technically incomplete, was already working. For better or for worse, I was beginning to realize that Lucas might be the closest thing I’d ever have to amuse. And that was… exhilarating and terrifying.
We were friends. We lived together. We went on dates that werenot real, that weren’t meant to make a relationship move forward. We shared hot, intimate, hushed moments in bathroom stalls and went on like they hadn’t been more than a dream.
Which brought me to the second thing I’d realized: I was playing a dangerous game. Because as much as this whole thing was helping me, the fact that Lucas’s stay in New York—in my life—had an expiration date was starting to take more and more space in my mind. It was starting to make me desperate to grab every single thing I could take from him before he left. Not for Rosie, Date Night. But for Rosie, Every Other Night.
