We eat dinner together every night, usually outside. And we have sex. Lots and lots of sex.
And it is—chef’s kiss—amazing.
But now it’s Thursday, and after spending the afternoon weeding in the garden, I drop a bath bomb in the tub of the master bathroom and fill it with steaming hot water.
I settle in, feeling completely content. Then Lance ups the pleasure quotient by deciding to join me. Now, my back is pressed to his chest, his legs surround mine, and there are suds up to my collarbone.
I am drowning in bliss.
“So,” Lance says as he runs a loofah down the inside of my arm, sending tiny goose bumps rising up along my skin like the wake from a boat, “there’s a party Saturday night I’d like to bring you to.”
I look over my shoulder to meet his eyes. “Really?”
“Yeah. It’s kind of a networking thing for me, but it shouldn’t be too bad. A couple hours, max.”
“You’re really giving it the hard sell, huh?”
He shrugs. “Honestly, I’d rather be working or hanging out here with you. But I have a lot of things lined up this summer. Social things. Keep your weekends free for me.”
That warm, fluttery feeling in my stomach recedes. “I can’t do that—I just told the restaurant to put me on weekend shifts. I can join you this Saturday, but starting next weekend I’ll be working Friday, Saturday, and every other Sunday.”
A frown works its way between Lance’s brows. “Tell them you changed your mind.”
I pull away from him, warm water rushing to fill the space that’s opened up between us. “Lance, I’m sorry. But I need the work.”
“Why now?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve been here a month and a half, why are you only asking for weekend shifts now?”
“I didn’t feel like I could. Once I saw what a typical weekend was like, I knew I’d need to stay on site.”
“What happened on a typical weekend?”
“The usual for a share house, I guess. Everyone inviting their friends over and friends of friends. Parties with a hundred people. Drunken back dives into the shallow end of the pool. Accidentally leaving a shower running or a curling iron on. I didn’t want to see anyone get hurt, or this gorgeous house ruined.”
Lance’s lips press into a firm line, brackets of irritation forming at the edges of his mouth. “You kept your schedule clear to babysit grown adults acting like idiots, but you won’t for me.”
I hate the disappointment filling his eyes, but I’m not willing to admit that this house was the first place that felt like home in years. That I’d been entrusted with a job, and my ego was so battered by my failed relationship that I clung to my new responsibilities like a lifeline. I convinced myself that if no one broke their neck or died of alcohol poisoning on my watch, and if this house was still standing at the end of the summer, then I would land on my feet, too.
Instead, I give him the simplest explanation. Shallow and easy to accept. “Unlike you, I don’t have a black card and deep pockets. On a Saturday, I’ll make five times what I can make on a Tuesday. And I need the money.”
It’s also true. The clock is ticking for me. I have less than two months to earn enough to afford my own place and maybe, hopefully, build a little cushion to make working for myself a possibility. I need to take advantage of every opportunity to make money. I’m having a great time with Lance, but if I don’t put myself first, no one else will.
And I don’t understand why he’s making such a big deal out of this. We’re living together, for God’s sake. I’ll still be in his bed every night.
“So, what you’re saying is—you’re choosing to be unavailable.”
My jaw sags a little as I study Lance’s face for signs that he’s kidding. Can he really be this obtuse? “This isn’t exactly a choice for me. If I don’t take on more shifts, I’m going to be screwed when Labor Day rolls around, and I don’t have a place to live anymore.”
“Fine. I’ll pay you. Call the restaurant and tell them you took a different job.”
“Pay me?”
The annoyed look on Lance’s face fades, and I can see him warming up to the idea. “Yes. The most valuable asset we all have is time. That’s what I’m asking you for and you’re saying you can’t afford to give it away for free. So I’ll pay you for your time. Problem solved.”
My body goes still, my muscles recoiling at his suggestion. “What? No. Absolutely not, and I can’t believe you would even—”
But I can. He said it himself. There are some problems money can solve. And when that’s the case, I take full advantage.
Lance’s hand slides up my arm to curve around my shoulder, his grip possessive and uncomfortable. I shrug him off, water sloshing over the edge of the tub. He sighs, like I’m a child having a temper tantrum. “Look, I don’t really give a fuck about filling up my social calendar. I’m here for the summer to increase the visibility of a project that means a lot to me. If it didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“Because this place is a meat market. Every time I turn around, someone is trying to set me up. My friends, the wives of colleagues. It’s a distraction. A negative variable I’d like to cancel out.”
I look at him doubtfully. “And showing up to parties with me will do that?”
He makes a sound that’s somewhere between a grunt and a laugh. “It will if you’re my girlfriend.”
I give a slow blink. Girlfriend.
Lance clarifies. “I’ll pay you to be my girlfriend.”
Whoa. I stand up, water and suds going everywhere as I grab a towel and wrap it tightly around me. “Okay, I think we’re done here. That’s not—I’m not—”
“It’s an ideal solution to both our problems.”
“Too bad. I have a problem with your solution.”
“You’re being unreasonable, Vivienne. You want cash, I want you. Agree, and we both get what we want.”
“And what we just did, what we’ve been doing all week . . . will that be part of my job?”
Lance gets to his feet too, though he makes no move to reach for a towel, simply stands toe to toe with me in the tub. Cocky bastard. “What? No, of course not.”
“Are you sure? Isn’t sex part of the whole girlfriend experience?”
“Look, a few days ago, you said you were done with men.”
“After margaritas and tequila shots!”
Another sigh. “I didn’t plan for this, for you. But somehow, we happened. And I’m glad.”
Lance’s stare is gentle and searching. I find myself saying, “So am I.”
“Then, let’s make this work.” He tucks a wet piece of my hair behind my ear, the tenderness of the gesture making me sway toward him. “Pretend to be my adoring girlfriend, and I’ll pretend to be your very committed boyfriend. And after Labor Day, you’ll have a fat bank account and your time will be your own again.”
Wham.
Until now, we’ve avoided talking about what will happen with us after the summer is over. Sure, I know Lance won’t have this house anymore, that he lives in California. But lately, I’ve been hoping we’d figure out a way to continue seeing each other, even if it’s only every once in a while.