He doesn’t sleep for a long time, and he can tell she doesn’t, either. Instead they lie there in uneasy silence, the light from the TV flickering across the rug.
He wakes up the next morning, and she’s making pancakes.
“Something approximating pancakes, anyway,” she says when he pads into the kitchen, popping up onto her toes to plant a cheery kiss on his mouth. She’s wearing underwear and one of his T-shirts, her hair piled high on top of her head. “There’s coffee.”
“I—thanks.” Sam scratches at the back of his neck, cautious. Fiona has never, in all the time they’ve been hanging out, made coffee in the morning. Honestly, Sam didn’t even know he had coffee in this house. “Wow.”
“I don’t have rehearsal until tonight,” she continues, moving busily around the kitchen. “Want to do something? A hike?”
Sam raises an eyebrow. “Since when do you like to hike?”
“I like to hike!” she defends herself. “I could like it, conceivably. I’ve never actually done it.” She shrugs. “But that’s a thing normal people do, right? With the person with whom they’re engaging in various and sundry sexual acts?”
Sam smiles. “I think it’s a thing people do, yeah.” His brain catches on that word, though, normal, like a snag in the knit of a cashmere sweater. He can’t get over the feeling that she’s playacting, like she accidentally dropped some important façade and now she feels like she has to compensate. “Fiona,” he says. “About last night.”
“Yeah,” she says with a self-deprecating smile. “Sorry. I don’t sleep so well sometimes and it makes me an asshole.”
“You weren’t an asshole,” he says.
“You know what I mean.” She waves her hand, like him finding her half-catatonic in his living room is cigarette smoke she can swat away. “I’m going to shower.”
“Wait,” he says, “what about the pancakes?”
Fiona shrugs, like she hasn’t considered it. “I’m not actually hungry. I mostly just wanted to make them. You should eat, though.”
“Okay . . . ?” Sam frowns. “We showered last night, you realize.”
“I mean.” Fiona presses another kiss against his mouth, though he can’t figure out if he’s imagining that it feels a little bit forced. “I don’t think it counts when there’s no soap involved.”
“We used soap.”
“Not for washing.”
That makes him smile. “Fair,” he admits.
Fiona heads down the hallway, pulling off her T-shirt as she goes. Sam watches the long line of her bare back, muscles flexing underneath the smooth expanse of her skin. He stands there for a moment once she’s gone, stuffing a couple of pancakes absently into his mouth. He definitely didn’t have the right ingredients, and they taste distinctly sandy; still, nobody has made Sam breakfast in years.
Fuck it, he thinks, setting a half-eaten pancake down on the counter. He’s being a dick. Everybody’s entitled to a bad night every once in a while—not to mention the fact that when one considers the complete, collected history of Fiona St. James meltdowns, last night barely registered. He’s overthinking it because he feels guilty about lying to her, that’s all. Enough is enough. It’s time to come clean.
He’s just about to head down the hallway when his phone rings on the counter. Sam frowns. It’s a number he doesn’t recognize—the firefighter thing, he realizes suddenly, his heart lifting in his chest. And yeah, usually something like that would come through Russ, but it’s conceivable they wanted to talk to him direc—
“Sam Fox,” he says.
“Sam!” comes the familiar voice on the other end. “Jamie Hartley.”
Sam startles. Jamie hasn’t called him in—well, Jamie hasn’t called him ever, actually. “Um, hey,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at the bathroom door. “Can I call you back?”
“No,” Jamie says cheerfully. “This is important. Do-or-die time here, buddy. Look, I talked to your agent, and he says you’re just as excited to get this thing off the ground as I am. And I know you’ve been making time with our girl.”
Sam can just imagine Fiona’s face if she heard Jamie refer to her as their anything. “I don’t know if that’s what I’d call it,” he manages, trying to keep his voice as quiet as he can without actually whispering. “And dude, I gotta tell you, it really seems like any negotiations you’re trying to have with her should probably be between the two of y—”
“Listen to this guy!” Jamie laughs. “Okay, man, you don’t want to talk about it, I can respect that. I think that’s very classy. But listen. Why don’t the three of us have lunch, at least? We’ll go somewhere nice, have a few drinks, you and I can make our pitch in person. And if I can’t close, then that’s on me. At the very least, you can tell her she’ll get a free meal. Really, no strings attached.”
“I—” Sam has to admit, it sounds reasonable. Fun, even, if not for the fact that Fiona is probably going to rip his balls off for even suggesting it. “Yeah, maybe.” He remembers Jamie taking him for burgers at the end of every season of Birds of California. He remembers that his rent is due in eleven days. “Okay,” he says finally, scrubbing a hand through his hair. He was going to tell her the truth anyway, wasn’t he? This will just be . . . part of it. “Look, Jamie. You know as well as I do that nothing I say is going to make her do anything she doesn’t want to. But I’ll talk to her about it, okay? And I’ll keep trying to convince her.”
“Good man,” Jamie says. “Let’s say one o’clock tomorrow? I’ll have my assistant make a reservation and send you guys the details.”
Sam feels himself blanch. “Wait,” he tries. “I didn’t say—”
But Jamie is already gone.
Sam swears quietly under his breath, staring at the darkened screen for a moment. It’s only after he sets the phone down on the counter that he realizes at some point when he wasn’t paying attention, the water shut off down the hall.
“Convince her to do what?” Fiona asks.
Sam closes his eyes for a moment. Opens them again. When he turns around, there she is, standing at the mouth of the hallway in a towel, gazing at him evenly. Her hair is wet, her face scrubbed. She looks very, very young.
“Fee,” he starts, then snaps his jaws shut. His first instinct is to lie. Did he use her name just now, on the phone with Jamie? He doesn’t think so. He could tell her they were talking about something else. Hell, he could tell her it was another Jamie entirely, someone she doesn’t know and who’s never even heard of her, calling about something entirely unrelated to—
“He wants to have lunch,” Sam says quietly. “The three of us. To talk about the show.”
Fiona nods slowly, absorbing that information. Then she smiles. “This whole time, huh?”
“Wait, what?” Sam shakes his head, not understanding. “No, I—”
“What did you think, exactly?” She sounds sincerely curious. “That if you plowed me enough eventually I’d just roll over and do whatever you wanted? Or was the sex just, like, a fun bonus for you?”
Sam flinches. “I—no,” he insists, “of course not. That’s not what this is at all.”
“Was,” Fiona corrects.
“What?”
“Whatever this was,” she repeats. She’s still smiling. She looks . . . almost pleased, actually, like she’s been waiting for this moment and is relieved it’s finally arrived. “It’s definitely over.”
Sam feels that like a fist through his ribs. “Fee,” he says again, voice cracking a little. “Come on. Can we just—”
“Can we just what, exactly?” Fiona’s eyes flash dangerously; for the first time, her smile falls. “Talk some more about the supposed merits of a project I’ve been very clear I have no interest in doing? Have a friendly little lunch with a person you’re fully aware I truly fucking hate? Forget about the fact that you’ve been lying your flat ass off the entire time we’ve been sleeping together?” She tilts her head. “What is it specifically that you want me to do here, Sam?”
Sam blinks at that, caught off guard. “Wait a minute,” he blurts stupidly, before he can stop himself. “You think my ass is flat?”
“Oh my god.” Fiona laughs out loud, a sharp, mean-sounding cackle. “Okay. This is ridiculous. And you know what the worst part is? I knew it was ridiculous, every single day I was saying to myself, Fiona, this is fucking ridiculous, and still I let myself—” Fiona breaks off, shaking her head in disbelief. “Forget it. I’m gonna get dressed.” She turns toward the bedroom.
“I’m sorry, what about it was so ridiculous?” Sam takes a step toward her, reaches for her arm. “Because I have to say, you didn’t seem to think it was so ridiculous when you were—”