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I know he’ll be right back but I’m already regretting sending him away. I miss his smile, his kind eyes. I really miss touching him—not that I can afford any more touches if we’re going to obey the rules. It was nearly impossible to stop once we started. He felt as good as I expected, so good that my fantasies are going to be brutal from here on out.
My fingers itch to clutch his shirt and drag it over his head. His body is so beautiful with the art he’s inscribed on it. I’ve only seen it a couple of times, always from a distance, and only by accident when he was changing his shirt or tugging off a hoodie. He’s a walking museum exhibit, and I’m growing increasingly desperate to explore that human work of art.
When I hear the knock on the door, I’m on my feet so fast my trainer would think I actually like doing cardio.
Since my driver is resting in his hotel room, I have the honor of opening the door myself which means… crap.
My tingles become prickles at the opposite person I was hoping to see.
“Hi, baby,” Jarvis says with a sticky smile on his face.
“Hey. What are you doing here?”
“Got the memo, sugar doll. Let’s hashtag this out, m’kay?”
Somehow I manage to keep my eyes from rolling as I return to the lounge. If I don’t move, there will be a collision, and there’s only one person I want to be rubbing against at the moment. Spoiler alert: It’s not the one with a two-story wall in his house called “The Me Wall.”
“What memo?” I ask, dropping to the seat adjacent to the main couch. There’s no chance he can sit beside me now. Not that he’ll be doing much sitting in those jeans. Did his stylist sew them on?
He skims his hand over the tips of his gelled hair so as not to adjust a single strand, then attempts to lower himself to the cushion closest to me. Except… called it.
I watch with mild intrigue as he contorts his body so his legs don’t have to bend when his butt hits the cushion. I guess this would be considered sitting? It’s not standing. Or lying down. Definitely not squatting so…
“The memo that you’re having second thoughts about us.”
“There’s a memo?”
“Not an actual memo. It’s an emblem of speech.”
Is it?
He goes for casual arrogance by lacing his fingers behind his head and leaning back. But since he also can’t lean, he just looks like he was about to do an ab crunch and forgot how.
(For the record, ab crunches are one of the few things that man does know how to do well. He even wrote a song about it: “Abs and Abby.” It’s as bad as it sounds.)
“I can’t have second thoughts because there were no first thoughts,” I say. “There is no ‘us,’ Jarvis. We talked about this.”
His manicured brows knit together. “No, you said you didn’t want to be in a relationship.”
My manicured brows also knit together. “Yes… exactly.”
“So let’s not be in a relationship.”
I squint back. Are his inside words becoming outside words again? It’s really hard to talk to him when that happens.
“Great,” I say with some hesitation. “Then are we finished here? I was about to work on something.”
“I guess so. Just make sure you cry when you accept my proposal.”
He wriggles in an attempted extraction from the couch.
“What? We just agreed we’re not in a relationship.”
“We’re not.” He adds a wink. That can’t be good.
“So why would I accept your fake marriage proposal?”
“It’s an emblem, remember?”
