The Real Deal

“In some books it is. I was reading a romance novel the other day, and the couple had met and slept together at some chichi event, and now it was into the getting-to-know-you part. So at the start of chapter ten or whatever, Jane and Dave were sitting in ‘companionable silence’ in his Range Rover as they drove to the next town over for dinner.”

Theo’s nose crinkles. “That sounds as unpleasant as hot guacamole.”

I chuckle. “Yes. It does.”

“Companionable silence sounds like something married people do.”

“Right? And the funniest part is that it was their third date. By the end of the car ride, during which they’ve said all of, I dunno, three things—want the heat on, I love heat, want some music, I love George Strait, you look pretty tonight, thank you—she says she feels like she knows him well and she’s falling for him.”

He laughs loudly, tossing his head back as if this is the most absurd idea ever to him, and I like that he feels the same as I do. He shakes his head vigorously. “You can’t fall for someone in companionable silence.”

“My point exactly. How else would you know you like someone if not through talking to them?”

“Personally, I don’t think you can truly know a person unless you know if she’d rather be invisible or able to fly.”

I quirk up a corner of my lips. “Ah, but here’s the thing about that question. There’s a big loophole, and no one ever remembers to qualify it properly.”

“How so?”

“Consider this: If you were invisible, would your clothes be invisible, too?” I gesture to his dark jeans and the black T-shirt with the words THE PROBLEM WITH QUOTES ON THE INTERNET IS YOU NEVER KNOW WHICH ONES ARE REAL—ABRAHAM LINCOLN. “Or would they remain completely visible?”

He brings his fingers to his temple, and mimes an explosion. “Mind. Blown.”

I point at him. “See? That’s what I mean. The clothing issue changes the game completely.”

His eyes are intense as he stares at me. “It changes everything.” Theo brings his face closer to mine, and for a brief moment I feel as though we’re marooned on a little train island of these two dark blue seats. “Especially since I’m now thinking about how you’d look with invisible clothes on.”

A pulse beats low in my body, and I nearly squirm because he’s looking at me like my clothes are already off. Like he’s removed them, and they’re puddled on the floor in a pile of invisible fabric.

“Yeah,” he says in a dirty whisper. “You’d look fantastic with invisible clothes on.”

I can’t take it. I can’t handle this haze of heat. I feel naked, and absolutely unsure what’s real and fake. All I know is this arousal is too real, and I have to squash it. “Do you like George Strait?”

He pushes his head back into the headrest, laughing. “I’m not playing the companionable silence game, April. Also, speaking of talking, there’s something we haven’t discussed,” he says as the train glides into Wistful’s station a few minutes early.

“What’s that?”

“What are the sleeping arrangements for the reunion?”





Chapter Eight

Theo

The sign dangling above the doors of the station proudly boasts WISTFUL, CONNECTICUT. HOME OF THE WILD THUNDERCOASTER, BELUGA WHALES, THE MARITIME MUSEUM, AND THE BEST TOWN EVER. POPULATION, 8,233.

April popped into a restroom, so I wander through the tiny station though there’s not much to see. A tired woman with a dark black braid stands at the ticket window, her chin in her hand. A long wooden bench spreads across half the station, and behind me, the sound of the train pulling away ripples through the summer evening air. I stare at the open wooden doors that spill out into the small town, and there are probably a thousand million more questions I should have asked April on the train.

I don’t mean favorite-color shit. The stuff that matters: life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness.

But winging it is sometimes the name of the game.

A minute later, her high-heeled sandals smack against the tiled floor. I turn around and decide that “high-heeled” really isn’t the best description. They’re more like chunky heels.

Wedges, I think they’re called.

Focusing on her shoes helps me to avoid focusing on other parts of her.

Like every other part of her.

Her curvy body looks fantastic in her dark red summer dress with spaghetti straps. She has on one of those half sweaters, a white number that hits right at the side of the breasts. I’m convinced those sweaters were designed by someone who wanted to screw with boob aficionados like myself.

But she’s screwing with other parts too because it’s difficult not to like her. She’s a pistol, with a sharp, silver-tongued wit, and the quickest mouth I’ve ever known.

As I let my eyes play tour guide, roaming over her body, I force myself to remember—she’s not my girlfriend. Liking her would be a colossal mistake. My brother once liked Addison, and look what happened there. His ex is a goddamn bounty hunter, Boba Fett chasing Han Solo’s debt.

April gestures to the suitcases at my feet. “Thanks for getting the bags.”

“Want to catch a cab to your parents’ place?” I ask.

She didn’t tell me the sleeping arrangements yet. The conductor barked our arrival after I asked, and then she said she needed to text her mom that we were a few minutes early.

“My mother will pick us up any second. My father is probably in bed. He’s a grizzly bear if he doesn’t go to sleep by nine.” She takes a breath and nibbles on a corner of her lip. “But I’ve failed to give you a full and proper warning about my mom.”

I raise an eyebrow. “What sort of warning do I need? Does she collect garden gnomes?” April shakes her head, her pretty curls hitting her cheeks. “Brew moonshine in the backyard in an underground bootlegging ring?” Another shake. “She knows Krav Maga and uses it regularly on all her children’s significant others when they least expect it?”

She laughs and answers as she shrugs off that little white wrap, displaying bare arms. But I lose track of what she says because her arms are sexier than I ever imagined a woman’s arms could be. They’re fit and toned, and just the tiniest bit muscular. I stifle a groan. Maybe it’s a rumble. Because my traitorous brain had the brilliant but very bad idea to imagine how she’d look with those arms above her head, grasping the headboard. All long, and stretched out, and ready.

Nice work, brain.

“So you won’t mind?”

I blink, trying to shoo away the thoughts of her without any clothes, invisible or not. I have no idea what I won’t mind. “No, that won’t be a problem.”

“Good.” April nods several times, draws a sharp breath, rocks on those wedge heels. “Because she’s a recovering attorney,” April spits out, like it’s a confession on par with, She’s got one glass eye and hates when you stare at it, so please don’t.

“Recovering?”

“You can never truly be fully recovered from being an attorney. We really had to be there for her to support her as she broke the addiction to lawyering.”

“I trust she’s happier now?”

“Yes, but the attorney in her is never far from the surface. She was a former prosecutor. She sometimes can’t help herself. She likes to ask questions.”

I nod and give her a reassuring grin. “I can handle that.”

“A lot of questions, Theo.” She’s emphatic, and clearly she’s prepping me for the Mom Inquisition. “She tries really hard to be nonargumentative, but that’s sort of like asking a banana to be round.”

“Have you done that before? Asked a banana to be round?” I ask in complete seriousness.

“No, because I’ve heard it’s quite difficult.”

I drop a hand to her shoulder so I can reassure her.

Bad mistake.

Her skin is soft. Incredibly soft. My brain goes haywire, and I picture the inside of my head like a robot’s circuit board, frying from contact. I should let go. I’ve never gotten physical with a client. I’ve never wanted to before, and I don’t intend to this time either. It’s the worst kind of mistake, as it’d blow my reputation as a boyfriend-for-hire to smithereens.

But this shoulder is insanely enticing.

And something is definitely wrong with me if I’m getting turned on by her shoulder. I let go. “I’m ready.”

“Ready for what?”

That was not April.