The three of us talk for two hours, and during that span of one hundred twenty minutes, I don’t think about tonight at all.
It’s a wonderful slice of time.
It reminds me that I can do my job. I can do what I came here to do.
Sure, even if I get my emotions bruised, even if my heart is knocked around, I’ll be fine.
I’ll come out on the other side of friends-with-benefits unscathed.
Surely I will.
When I say goodbye to Kim and let her know we’ll be in touch soon, Matthew and I conduct a postmortem.
“She’s great. We should offer her more than you make,” I say, teasing.
But he flashes a warm smile and nods. “If that’s what it takes, do it.”
I scoff. “Matthew, I’m joking.”
“I’m not,” he says, intense, serious. “I’m not sitting around counting who makes more money. Or who has the bigger post. I just want what’s best for the team.”
I sigh happily. “I would like to clone you for literally every job I ever need to fill.”
“I’d like to clone myself sometime. Can I send one of my clones out to eat cake and pie all day long, while I stay fit and trim?”
“I want one of those clones too,” I say with a laugh.
“In any case, we’ve got a few more candidates for the job, but we should make sure we know exactly what Kim wants. And then offer it to her.”
“It’s like we share a brain.”
He narrows his eyes. “Sometimes. But, call me crazy, I think it’s for the best that we can’t read each other’s mind.”
With a laugh, I agree. “Truer words.”
I’m glad no one else has access to my thoughts when I check my phone a little later.
Anticipation zips through me when I see Crosby’s name on the screen.
Just flies through my body, lighting me up.
Crosby: Don’t know about you, but I’ve spent the morning getting harassed about that pic Leo took of us. I mean, in the harassers’ defense, I do look like I want to devour you. So fair’s fair. I want to, and I plan to, and I will be doing just that tonight. Before then, I need to know—do you want pasta, Thai, or a grain bowl from Mom’s café tonight?
Leaning back in my chair, I grin like a fool as lust roars through me.
This man turns me on and makes me laugh.
That’s the problem.
I write back, asking for the grain bowl. At least that much is easy.
22
Crosby
I toss the question to my priest. “Am I supposed to confess?”
Raj taps his chin, his brow furrowing as I work through the insane number of crunches he ordered me to do.
“In situations like this, I ask myself, ‘What would Kenneth do?’”
“Who?” I ask as I twist my obliques.
“Kenneth from Thirty Rock. He’s my point of reference for decision-making,” Raj says, crouching next to me at the gym.
“Kenneth? The ultimate good guy? The sweet, innocent Kenneth who’s basically a proxy for Mister Rogers and Kermit the Frog?”
Raj grins, his white teeth gleaming, as he nods. The former Bollywood stuntman is now a kick-ass personal trainer, and I was lucky enough to snag a spot on his client list. “Yep. And hey, those guys all knew how to make good choices.”
“So you’re saying I should tell my buds I fell off the wagon?”
Raj rolls his eyes, grabs his phone, and brandishes the shot from last night at me. “Do pictures lie, man? Switch to bicycle crunches stat.”
“Everyone has shown that to me,” I say, taking my phone from the floor, opening it, and shoving it at him before I shift to the new exercise. “Open my messages.”
He clicks on them, then cracks up, his hand flying to his belly. “Dude.”
“I know,” I say, rolling my eyes as I twist my elbow to my opposite knee, then the other, and so on.
Raj clears his throat, reading out loud. “From Grant at nine thirty: Dude. I know she didn’t steal your socks, your ring, or your car, but have you no self-control? From Chance at nine forty-five: Dude. Busted. From Holden at ten fifteen: Dude. Guess who’s admitting on TV that we’re better at the world’s greatest sport?”
Raj flops down on the mat. “Looks like you don’t need to confess, Cros. They figured you out.”
“From a picture. What the hell is so obvious about that pic?”
“Switch to side planks,” he says, studying the shot. “Oh, I see.”
“What is it?” I ask as I hold myself up on my right side, left arm straight up in the air.
“It’s the eyes,” he says, tapping on the phone, then showing me a close-up of my peepers. “Do you see it?”
“What am I looking for?”
“You look at her like you’re falling for her.”
I fall on my hip, slipping out of the plank, landing splat on my side with an oof.
Recovering quickly, I ask, “What are you talking about?”
As I pull myself up, he sits crisscross next to me then proceeds to explain in detail how my eyes give everything away.
“Huh,” I say, studying the picture, the way I’m gazing at Nadia, how my lips are crooked into a grin, how my hand is curled tightly around her waist.
Maybe I do look at her that way.
Maybe I am falling for her.
Holy fuck.
It’s like I just learned that a pitcher I’ve batted against for years is now throwing a knuckleball.
And I don’t know how to hit it.
The rest of the day, I try to figure out what the hell to do with this knuckleball of Nadia’s.
The situation gets worse when I stop by my mom’s café in the city to pick up dinner.
She hands me a paper bag full of food. “So how are you going to deal with the fact that everyone seems to think you have it bad for Eric’s sister?”
“Because of the photo?”
She laughs softly, shakes her head, and sits me down at a table. “It’s not because of a photo, sweetie.” She shoots me a knowing grin. “It’s because of years.”
23
Nadia
I pace
