by Roxy Reid
“My place is more comfortable,” I argue.
“Then why are you always at my place?” he asks.
Because you’re here, I think, but after making out with him and accidentally getting married to him when drunk, that suddenly feels like too personal a thing to admit.
“I think we should test out each place,” I say instead. “We’ll spend tonight at your place. Tomorrow at mine. We’ll compare notes and figure out the best option, and then we’ll move in together before the party.”
Sean yawns and takes another sip of his coffee. “I can work with that.”
We move on to planning a giant party at his place next Sunday to celebrate our fake wedding.
I spend the afternoon back at my place, obsessing over what to pack to spend the night at Sean’s. Bradley sits on my bed, shedding white fur on my black sweater and judging my choices.
I have three sets of pajamas on my bed. “These ones are the cutest and have that accidentally-sexy thing going on,” I say to Bradley, pointing to a cute short-and-cami set.
“This is what I’d actually wear to bed, but it’s so worn you can basically see my nipples. Also, coffee stain,” I say, pointing to the old, giant, stained t-shirt I normally wear to bed.
“And these are the ones I should pack. Cute. Platonic. No sexiness to be found,” I say, pointing to a plaid cotton pajama set my mom sent me for Christmas that looks like something out of a 50s TV show.
Bradley meows.
“You’re right, he’s not going to see them. I have my own room. I’ll only wear my pajamas when I sleep. This is not a big deal.”
Bradley yawns and starts licking himself.
“It’s not that I want him to think I’m sexy in a let’s-have-sex way. Obviously not. Just in a wow-my-friend-is-hot, good-for-her kind of way. It has nothing to do with that kiss. Which probably wasn’t even that good of a kiss. We were just drunk, you know? It was probably sloppy and gross. I’m probably making a big deal out of nothing. I’m sure Sean’s forgotten it by now.”
Bradley meows.
“You’re right, I’ve said all this already. But you’re not exactly helping. Which is because you’re a cat. Cats don’t talk back. Shit, I’m finally turning into a crazy cat lady.” I flop down onto the bed in despair.
Bradley gives me a look, and then he goes over and sits on the sexy pajamas. I perk up.
“Really? You think I should go with those?”
Bradley jumps off the bed and leaves the bedroom.
“Well, you picked it, not me!” I call after him. “I’m just a normal, adult woman, doing what my cat says.”
I finish packing, eat dinner, and when I can’t delay any longer, I head over to Sean’s to spend the night.
For as many times as I’ve been to Sean’s mansion, I’ve never been upstairs. I follow him up a stylish glass staircase, lugging my night bag.
“Every time I see one of these things, I think about how if you’re wearing a skirt, someone could look up and see your underwear,” I say.
Sean stops. “Huh.” He looks down. “If you move into my place, how do you feel about wearing more skirts?”
I wack him on the back of the head, and he laughs.
The upstairs is oddly soothing, painted in dark colors that make me feel like curling up and settling in for the night. He shows me the bathroom—clean, sufficiently luxurious, no decorations, well stocked with fluffy towels—waves in the general direction of his bedroom, and stops at the guest room, which is across the hall from his bedroom.
I wander into the room. The walls are a deep forest green. The bedding is amazingly soft. On the walls, there’s a collection of small black and white photos of people laughing in pubs. I look closer and notice that one of the people is a much-younger Sean. There’s a softness to his face that he doesn’t have anymore, and the sweater he’s wearing is a size too big for him, but he looks happier than I’ve ever seen him.
“When were these taken?” I ask.
“Hmm? Oh, ages ago. A friend gave them to me when I was moving to the states. Sort of a don’t-forget-us present. My interior decorator found them when I was moving and figured I should put them up somewhere.”
I slant him a look, realizing for the first time that Sean hardly has any photos of his friends and family around the place. The ones he has are in a guest room.
“When was the last time you went back to Ireland?” I ask.
“Oh, a few years now. I used to go back more often, but once my first company took off, it was easier to fly my mum and brother out here. I don’t know. I guess it was just easier to make a clean break.” He leans against the door frame, watching me move around the room. “So what do you think? Could you live here?”
No is my immediate thought. It’s beautiful, but it feels like something designed by an interior decorator. It would be like living in a hotel for a year.
I’m trying to give his house a fair shot, though, so I say, “Let me sleep on it.”
I wait until I hear him settle in for the night, then I take a shower and change into my pajamas. I check myself out in the bathroom mirror. Thank God Sean went to bed already. These are a lot skimpier than I remember.
I peek out the hallway to make sure his bedroom door is firmly shut. I gently shut the bathroom door behind me and sneak toward my door. The last thing I need is Sean popping out of his room, giving me crap about my pajamas.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Gah!” I jump a foot in the air and turn to see Sean standing at the top of the stairs with a bowl of popcorn.
I place a hand over my pounding heart. “You scared me.”
“You looked like you were trying to commit a robbery.” Sean smirks.
“I didn’t want to wake you,” I say with dignity, tugging at the hem of my camisole so that it doesn’t ride up to show my stomach. Of course, that just means the neckline gets pulled lower, showing even more of my boobs.
“It’s barely eleven,” Sean says, watching the movement of my camisole with interest. “I came up to ask if you want to watch a movie.”
“I have to be at the office at nine tomorrow,” I say, giving up on the camisole and backing toward my door. I must look like a skittish deer because Sean rolls his eyes.
“Calm down, Grace. I’m not going to make a move on you just because you kissed me when we were drunk.” It’s exactly what I want, but the way he says it somehow manages to make me feel ridiculous.
I stop in the doorway to my room and put my hands on my hips. “Hey. You kissed me back.”
“Of course I did. It was a bloody great kiss. But we’ve both agreed we’re not doing it again, so you can stop acting like I’m going to jump you. No matter how little clothing you’re wearing.”
“It wasn’t that great a kiss,” I say, feeling flustered. “We were drunk.”
Sean’s eyes darken. “Bullshit.”
I swallow. I raise my chin. “Studies show alcohol lowers sexual inhibitions and impedes memory. It’s only logical to conclude—”
“If you really thought that, you wouldn’t be running for your room. You’re terrified I might kiss you when you’re sober and can’t ignore it,” Sean says.
I can tell he’s angry because his accent is coming out thickly. I don’t know why I’m pushing this. I don’t know why he’s pushing this. We both agree kissing each other is a bad idea.
“What do you want me to say?” I ask.
“I don’t care what you say. I just care that you’re honest. That’s what friends do. We tell each other the truth,” Sean says.
“I am telling you the truth,” I say stubbornly.
“No. You’re. Not.”
I throw my hands up in the air. “How the hell am I supposed to convince you I am?”
“You can’t, because you aren’t. What the fuck are you going to do, kiss me to prove there’s no chemistry?”
I narrow my eyes.
His eyes widen. “No. No, Grace, that’s a bad idea.”<
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“Then admit this is your problem, not mine, and I’m telling the truth,” I argue.
He clamps his mouth shut, mutinous.
“Right, then. We’re solving this here and now. Put the popcorn down and kiss me,” I say. “Unless you’re scared of proving I’m right.”
“You’re impossible,” Sean says.
I make chicken sounds at him.
Sean sets the popcorn down on a side table and strides toward me, all masculine power. Too late, I realize this is a really bad idea.
He takes my face in his hands and kisses me.
I try to stay strong. It’s just a kiss. He’s just a man. There is no reason for me to be leaning into him, knotting my hands in his t-shirt. There’s no reason for me to go weak at the knees or catch my breath as he tastes me. His hands leave my face like he’s going to break the kiss, but I move into him, wrapping my arms around his neck.
This kiss is a horrible idea.
But it’s also—probably—the last time I will ever kiss Sean, and I’m not done yet.
“No chemistry, huh?” Sean says, and I kiss him to shut him up.
His hands find my hips. Then his fingertips slide under the hem of my camisole. When I moan, it snaps something in him, and he backs me into the doorframe, spreading my legs with his knee, cupping my breast with his hand. His thumb strokes my nipple, and I shiver.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, his voice ragged.
“We should definitely stop,” I agree.
He takes a deep breath, steeling himself to pull away. Which is good. He should definitely pull away. Only I don’t want him to.
I haven’t felt this good in a long time. I take his other hand and press it to my other breast. There’s nothing between his hands and me but the thin fabric of my camisole. He makes a sound deep in his throat and falls on my mouth. I twist my hips, hungry for more. He presses his hips into me, and I can tell I’m not the only one who’s hungry.
I’m just alert enough to realize we can’t move to the bed. If we actually have sex before we spend a year living together and pretending to be married … I don’t need a doctorate in psychology to know that will fuck up our friendship.
On some level, I think Sean knows that, too, because as hot as the kiss is, he doesn’t make a move to get either of us out of our clothes, and he doesn’t try to move us to the bed.
Instead, we stand on the threshold, making out like teenagers.
Sean’s the one who finally stops, pushing himself so that his back is against the other side of the doorframe. We’re less than a foot away from each other, but given how wet I am for him right now, that distance feels massive. I’m gasping, trying to get my breath under control, and Sean’s fighting a losing battle to keep his eyes off the rise and fall of my breasts.
He closes his eyes. “Unless you want a wedding night, this has to stop right now.”
I feel a shiver go up my spine at the words wedding night. Just for a second, I think of throwing caution to the wind, fucking him, and letting the cards fall where they may. But that can’t be an option. Maybe if we didn’t need to pretend to be happily married for a year, but my career depends on us working as a team. Hook-ups work because both people get to walk away when it’s over.
Neither of us gets to walk away.
“You should leave,” I say.
He nods once and goes straight to his room. The sound of his door shutting behind him echoes down the quiet hallway. I hear a deep, muffled groan from his room and blush. Given how hard I just got him, I’m pretty sure I know exactly what he’s doing. I wonder if he’s thinking about me while he’s doing it. I wonder if I want him to.
You could change your mind, a wicked voice whispers in my ear, but that way lies horny, unsatisfied madness.
I grab the popcorn Sean left on the side table, then I retreat to my bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind me. I pull out my phone and watch dumb videos on youtube, shoving popcorn into my mouth until I’m calm enough to sleep.
At six the next morning, my alarm goes off, jolting me out of the hottest sex dream of my life. I blink at my surroundings, trying to remember where I am. Then I remember the last twenty-four hours and decide two things.
One, I can never kiss Sean again. Ever. Under any circumstances.
Two, we’re going to have to live at my place.
I need to get back on my own turf, where it’s easier to remember what’s important and why we’re doing this marriage in the first place.
6
Sean
Is it weird if a girl never invites you over to her place? Because she’s at my place all the time.
—Sean Bronson, text message to his brother, Peter Bronson, three years into his friendship with Grace
The next morning, Grace has to go to work, but before she does, she hands me a set of keys and tells me to make myself at home. I try to see if she’s weirded out by how close we came last night to doing something we really shouldn’t, but she’s her normal, efficient self. In five minutes, she’s out the door with her purse, and I’m staring down at the keys in my hand.
Well. No time like the present.
It’s not as if hanging around my own home all day since the sale of my company went through has led to anything productive.
I head over to her place and let myself in the front door. I know Grace’s place is smaller than mine. For starters, it was built about a hundred and fifty years ago. People were shorter back then. Yet, I’m not prepared for what it feels like when I step inside.
It’s an old Victorian, which I’m realizing means that even though it’s a big house, it’s filled with tiny rooms. Each room feels like its own little world, filled with antique furniture. Each item is nice individually, but added together with everything in the house, it creates a sense of living in the past. It doesn’t feel like Grace, who always seems to be charging ahead, ready to help people solve their problems and change their futures.
I know she inherited this place from her great-grandma. Maybe it’s hard to let go?
I wander into the light-yellow kitchen, and I can’t help but smile. It’s the first room that feels like Grace. The windows let in fresh air and daylight, and there are herbs growing on the windowsill. The appliances are new, and the cast iron frying pan on the stove is worn smooth from use.
Also, there’s a brilliantly white cat with blue eyes sitting next to an empty food bowl and glaring at me like I’m directly responsible for his starvation. Which, actually, I suppose I am if Grace forgot to come over and feed him before she went to work.
“Bradley, isn’t it?” I ask.
Bradley sniffs disdainfully.
Bradley reminds me of a CEO I know, but I suppose he deserves breakfast anyway. I check the cupboards and find a bag of dry cat food. I fill his bowl and give him fresh water. Bradley eats one nugget of food, then turns and walks away.
“You know, if I move in, we’re going to be roommates,” I call. “So you might as well get used to it. You’re not the only man in her life anymore.”
Bradley doesn’t deign to respond.
I head upstairs to check out Grace’s guest room. Like every other room in the house, the furniture is old, but it doesn’t feel as cramped, I think, because of the way Grace has everything arranged. The room is painted a light sage green, and the white curtain moves softly as a breeze blows through the window.
I hear a sound and look down to see that Bradley has joined me. He sits down next to my ankles.
“I hope she doesn’t leave her windows open like this all the time,” I tell Bradley. “It’s not safe.”
Bradley meows.
I go and test out the bed. The mattress isn’t as nice as mine, but there’s something oddly soothing about the room all the same. I’m not sure how long I lie there on my back, staring at the ceiling and tossing my wedding ring from hand to hand.
I didn’t tell Grace the real reason I didn’t want to throw a wedding party. It’s because if more people in the s
tates know we’re married, then I’m going to have to tell my mum and my brother, Peter, that we’re married. Ma’s going to kill me for having a Vegas wedding, and since Peter’s a Catholic priest, I was her only hope for one of her sons getting married.
I can’t exactly tell her, “Don’t worry, this marriage is ending in a year to six months. You’ll get to attend a real wedding later.”
I mean, technically I could, but that’s the kind of thing that will leave her flummoxed and needing to talk it over with her best friend, who will talk it over with his husband, who will talk it over with his coworker. Before you know it, half of Galway will know about the dumbass thing Deidre Bronson’s son did. Given how many tourists come through Galway, I give it a matter of months before the story goes global.
Then Grace will murder me. Or worse, she’ll cry again.
I fumble with my ring, and it hits the ground, skittering across the floor. I stand up to get it, but Bradley beats me to it, batting it out into the hallway.
“Bradley!”
Bradley ignores me, batting the ring through an open door and into another room. I chase him. Bradley darts under a bed to hide, but since he leaves my ring in the middle of the floor, that’s fine by me. I slide the ring back onto my finger as I stand up.
Then I look around and realize I’m in Grace’s bedroom.
The bed and the dresser are antique, but everything else in the room looks light and fresh and new. The curtains are light pink, and there’s psychology books, small plants, and scented candles scattered on every surface. The walls are covered with photos of Graces with friends, ranging from high school graduation photos to photos from someone’s wedding. A photo on top of her dresser is turned face down. I know I shouldn’t, but I lift it up, wondering if it’s an ex-boyfriend.
It’s her parents.
I know she doesn’t have the best relationship with her parents, but she’s never wanted to talk about why. I always assumed it was general parents-being-annoying, not-respecting-boundaries stuff, but this one picture turned down in a room full of other pictures proudly displayed feels like … pain.
