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“I only meant—”
“I’m just not ready for a relationship. I’ll never be ready for a relationship. I don’t believe in marriage and long-term monogamy. It’s unnatural. But that doesn’t mean that I think less of you. I think you’re pretty fucking great.”
“That’s nice of you,” she said, smiling weakly before clearing her throat.
She didn’t look convinced, and that frustrated Sam. He didn’t want her to think that she was just some random place-filler chick. The thought made him pause, because essentially she was exactly that. A fun, sweet bit of short-term entertainment . . . He’d been adamant that she not romanticize this arrangement between them, and she was doing exactly the right thing in establishing a clear set of guidelines up front about what they could expect from each other and this fling, for lack of a better word.
But why did it make him feel so damned uneasy and unsatisfied? He wasn’t sure. He watched as she gathered her things, feeling a hollowness settle in his gut as she turned to him and rewarded him with another of those beautiful, sweet smiles.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” she promised, and he nodded. He didn’t want to speak, not when the only words that would come out were more pleas for her to stay.
She hesitated and looked like she was about to say something else. Sam waited, hoping she’d change her mind about leaving, but in the end she said nothing. Just nodded at him and left.
He listened to her car start up, the cold engine coughing a bit before it turned over, and he instantly worried about her safety in that ancient Fiat. He checked the time and was shocked when he saw that it was after three. It was much too late for her to be out alone.
He immediately started pacing and, after ten minutes had passed, picked up his phone and called her. She answered on the second ring.
“Brand? Are you okay?” He shuddered in relief when he heard her concerned voice.
“That’s my line, sunshine. I didn’t know it was this late—you shouldn’t have left this time of night.”
“The roads were quiet; I was home in five minutes.”
“Next time you stay the night.”
“No. I’ll leave earlier.” He didn’t much care for that answer and seethed silently in response to it.
“Brand? You still there?”
“Yes,” he gritted.
“Did you call to find out if I got home safely?”
“Yes.”
“That’s really sweet, thank you for your concern.”
“You’re always so polite,” he said, for lack of anything better to say, and she laughed.
“I don’t know how to be any other way.”
“I like it,” he said, and then before he could stop himself, “I like you.”
She didn’t respond to that, and he sighed. That was probably for the best. He was in an odd mood. He didn’t understand himself right now.
“Lia?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you. For the orgasms.” He heard her harshly inhaled breath and smiled.
“Y-you’re, um . . . you’re quite welcome.” His smile widened into a grin.
“Lia?”
“Yes?”
“I can practically hear you blushing.” His observation startled an exasperated laugh out of her.
“Good night, Brand.”
“’Night, sunshine.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dahlia Rose McGregor’s List of Rules for an Effective Short-Term Fling (STF)
RULE 1—Absolutely! Do NOT! Fall in love!
RULE 2—No cuddling.
RULE 3—Don’t leave anything behind. Keep your clothes in your own closet!
RULE 4—No sleepovers.
RULE 5—No meaningful postcoital conversation.
RULE 6—Do not introduce to family (too late!).
RULE 7—No gifts given or received.
RULE 8—When it’s over, it’s over.
RULE 9—No regrets or shame.
“Good morning,” Lia greeted Sam with a bright smile when he came downstairs the following morning. He looked exhausted, and she figured they had probably overdone it the night before. The man was recovering from some pretty horrific injuries, and while he had performed admirably last night, four times had perhaps been a bit extreme.
“Hey.” He nodded, grabbing a long wooden spoon and inserting the end of it between his cast and his wrist. His eyes practically rolled back in his head when he reached the itch that had been bothering him. “God, I can’t wait for this fucking thing to come off!”
“When is your doctor’s appointment?” she asked. He dragged the spoon out and dropped it on the table before sitting down and looking at her.
“Next week. Wednesday or Thursday.”
“I need to know exactly where and when so that I can rearrange my schedule,” she said, dropping a coffee in front of him. He groaned appreciatively and hooked his palm around the mug to drag it closer. He inhaled deeply, just savoring the aroma for a long moment before lifting it to take a sip. He opened his eyes and met hers over the rim of the mug.
“Your coffee is the best,” he complimented, and she smiled. His gaze raked over her, going from her sensible beige kitten-heeled Mary Janes, up over her legs, farther up over the knee-length skirt of her pink gingham dress. It was a simple, strappy dress with a sweetheart neckline and small buttons all the way down the front, from neck to hem. She’d combined it with one of her favorite lacy white cardigans.
