He smirks. “I dare you.”

My hands rest on his muscular chest. “Blake, you need to get some sleep.”

He expression falls. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Let’s make a deal,” I say. “If you go to sleep, I’ll make you breakfast before I leave for work.”

The smile I love so much is back. “Now that’s a deal.”

Rolling my eyes, I pick my pajamas up off the floor and head toward the door. Blake doesn’t move or say a word. It would be so easy to turn back around and let him sink into me again.

It won’t be good for either of us. He’s someone I miss when he’s not around, and I can’t afford an attachment like him. He’s hiding behind me—in me—when what he really needs is to face whatever it is that’s eating him up inside. Just thinking about it makes me feel like a hypocrite because I ran to Chicago to get away from my shit. I guess we’re both lost in our own way.

MY ALARM SOUNDS JUST AFTER five, really early for a girl who stayed up past her bedtime trying to counsel a damaged man with the feel of her body.

After rolling out of bed, I quickly shower and dress. Not wanting to mess with my hair, I tie it up again, and attempt to hide my tired eyes with a thick layer of make-up. One last look in the full-length mirror, and I’m satisfied.

I didn’t hear a peep from Blake after I went back to my room. I’d heard him turn the lamp off, and the sound of his bed shifting shortly after crawling into my own. I tossed and turned, thinking about him. I want to know what set him off last night . . . what thoughts were running through his mind as he buried himself inside me over and over.

As I make my way to the kitchen, I notice the ache that still lingers between my legs. It’s going to remain there all day, reminding me of who I may or may not get to come home to tonight. That’s the thing about us—nothing is certain.

Searching the fridge, I find Blake’s beloved eggs. I’ve never been much of a cook so this should be interesting. Usually, when I’m in the kitchen with him, we’re bickering about something so I don’t know how he likes them exactly.

I crack two eggs and let them sizzle in the pan while I place some bread in the toaster. Blake emerges from his room just as they pop up.

“What’s going on in here?” he asks, wiping the sleep from his eyes.

“I owe you breakfast.” Looking down at the eggs, I add, “How do you like your eggs?”

He smiles. “Over-easy.”

He comes to stand beside me, which just makes me nervous. I flip. He narrows his eyes on the pan. “Does this meet your standards so far?” I ask, hating the silence.

“It’ll do,” he muses.

“Good, because this is what you’re getting.”

I pull the toast out and set it on the plate, trying to remember what he puts on it. Opening the fridge, I spot two kinds of jelly and a big container of butter. Shit.

“Strawberry jelly,” he says, reaching over me to grab the milk.

“Thanks.”

He laughs. “All you have to do is ask.”

While I occupy myself, putting his plate together, he sits down at the table with a newspaper. This feels too much like a relationship and not so much like me making good on a bet.

When everything is done, I put the plate in front of him. He looks up at me, eyes widening. “Breakfast is served,” I say, sauntering away from him.

“You’re going to make someone a nice wife some day,” he teases. I almost was someone’s wife, I think to myself as I walk back to the kitchen. I hate being reminded of my failures. “Did you dress up to play the part?” he adds.

“I started my new job yesterday.”

“Ditching Charlie’s already?”

“No,” I answer, wiping down the counters. “I’m working both to save up money for my own place.”

His fork clangs against the ceramic plate. “We already talked about this.”

I walk across the living room to my purse, ignoring him for a minute. As of right now, I’m staying until Mallory comes back but making him sweat isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It’s not like he hasn’t done it to me a time or two. “Settle down. I’m staying until Mallory gets back unless you give me a reason not to.”

“Is that what you’re wearing to work?” he asks, picking his fork back up.

“Yep,” I answer, putting a little extra sway in my step. The skirt pulls against my ass, and I’m pretty sure he’s looking. The apartment goes deathly quiet as I pull my purse over my shoulder. When I turn back around, he’s staring at me, his mouth hanging open. “Are you staring?”

His lips curl. “You’re walking a little funny today. Is everything okay?”

I narrow my eyes at him as I head toward the door. “I’ve been better.”

The chair screeches across the floor. I count . . . one . . . two . . . his arm wraps around my waist, pulling me back into his body. “Take that back,” his breath whispers against my ear.

“Take what back?” I ask, folding against his body even though I don’t want to. My body is a stupid traitor.

“No one’s ever made you feel better than I do.”

“You don’t know that.”

His grip tightens. “Yes, I do. Admit it.”

“Fine, Blake . . . if you don’t let me go, we’re going to be up against that wall or in your bed or on the counter. You pick.”

“Mmm, we haven’t tried the counter yet,” he groans, pressing his lips to my neck.

“Seriously, I need to go.”

“Five minutes.”

Pushing down on his arm, I try to free myself. It’s a pathetic attempt. “Blake, please, I need this job.”

“Have it your way . . . just this once. But tonight, Lemon Drop, you and I have a date on the counter.” He’s doing that thing again, bringing me to the brink of a sexual high with words alone. At some point, I know this has to stop, but that time is not now. I haven’t had my fill of him yet.

After he lets go of me, I adjust my clothes, assuring everything is still perfectly in place. I hold in my breath, trying to calm my racing heart then look at him one last time. “Bye, Blake.”

He winks.

Work reminded me of my first day of school this morning. Here’s your desk. There are the supplies. I’ll be your supervisor. Ugh.

My phone dings with a new text message.

Dana: We still on tonight??

Me: God, yes! Margaritas?

Dana: You know it. Meet me at Marco’s at 7.

Just what I need after a day like this. I tap my nails against the desk and stare at the clock. My cubicle ended up being on the fifth floor, which is nothing like the twelfth. Inspiration and good-looking men are minimal. I’m so bored out of my mind, I’d file, staple, enter data; I’m not too picky.

My mind wanders to Blake, and the date he promised me on the counter. Maybe I should let him know I won’t be home until late. Or maybe I shouldn’t because we’re not really dating—this isn’t a relationship where I have to report my every move.

Still, I don’t want him to worry so I pull out my cell phone again. After all the angst of not knowing where he was this weekend, I still didn’t ask for his number.

Looking at the time, I’m pretty sure Mallory is out of class for the day so I try her first.

Me: What’s Blake’s number?

A couple minutes tick by. More clock watching.

She texts me with it, and I quickly program it into my phone.

Mallory: Why did u need his #?

Me: Need to tell him something.

Mallory: Did he leave the toilet seat up?

I ignore her, typing out a text to Blake.

Me: Won’t be home until late tonight.—Lila

A reply comes right away.

Blake: I thought we had a date.

I smile . . . it’s hard not to. Every time I’ve walked around today, I’ve thought of him. When I look at the desk or the counter, I think of him. Even the walls make me think of him.