“That makes sense.” He nudges the crystal dragon on my dresser, smirking at me over his shoulder, before he picks up a bottle of perfume, takes the cap off, and sniffs it while his eyes linger on a framed photo. “That’s your mom, right?”
It’s a photo of her when she was a ballerina, before she was married. In the picture, she’s on pointe. Strong, graceful limbs extended with a peaceful and proud smile across her face. Bold stage makeup and a tight, slicked-back bun.
She wanted to throw this picture out because it reminds her of how much her body has changed, but I stole it because she’s beautiful here. She isn’t beautiful because she’s thinner; it’s because she’s happier and confident.
The photo is a reminder to me, too. Whenever a thought sneaks in about my body or my face, when I worry I’m starting to get wrinkles, or wonder if my boobs are the right size, or if my butt is too big, I think about this photo. She’s not beautiful because of her physical appearance; she’s beautiful because of who she is. I’d think that no matter what she looked like.
The photo reminds me to love myself as I am. Even if my body and face aren’t perfect. I won’t allow myself to hate my body like my mom hates hers.
“She looks like you.”
I hum, smiling to myself. Everyone says that, and I’m proud that I’m her spitting image. Pippa got our dad’s lighter coloring, but I love that I look like my mom.
Rory watches me like he’s trying to figure me out, and alarm bells start ringing in my head. Rory’s here in my apartment, seeing all my things, seeing who I am.
“Yes, please, snoop away.” My tone is dry as I walk over and set the photo face-down. I pull the second drawer open to grab my favorite sleeping shirt.
There’s a creak behind me.
“Rory.”
He’s lying on my bed, hands tucked behind his head. His face screws up in horror. “Jesus, Hartley, your bed. It feels like there are rocks in here.” He shifts, trying to get comfortable. “But it’s also, like, way too soft? Where’d you get this thing, the dumpster?”
My head falls back but I’m laughing. Yes, it’s an old mattress, and yes, this is fucking embarrassing.
“The floor would be more comfortable.” He moves his hips up and down, and the bed creaks violently. “How do you have sex on this thing?”
“I don’t have guys over—”
“Good.” He cuts me a hard look.
“—because once they come over,” I set a hand on my hip, “they don’t leave.”
He smiles and exhales all the tension out of his body. His legs are crossed at the ankles, and his socks are covered in Bigfoots riding bicycles. Weird.
And now his eyes are closed.
“Rory.”
“Mmm.” Eyes are still closed.
“I want to go to bed.” I’m still standing here in my gown.
“So go to bed,” he murmurs.
He looks perfectly at ease, like he’s over all the time. Like this is his second home.
Something tightens in my stomach. My fake boyfriend is falling asleep on my bed, and I have no fucking clue what to do with that.
“Good night, baby,” he murmurs, eyes still closed.
“You’re not staying.” I stop in the doorway to the bathroom. “And don’t call me that.”
“Fire-breather.”
I laugh despite myself. “When I come out, you better be putting your shoes on.” I say this, and yet, I know he won’t be.
“You got it.”
My sleep shirt barely covers my ass, and there’s a warning feeling whispering in the back of my mind, telling me to put shorts on, but I hate wearing anything other than underwear and a t-shirt to bed. I hate feeling all restricted, and I get way too hot.
Fuck that. Rory wants to sleep here, he can deal with what he sees.
Of course he’s fast asleep when I come out of the bathroom, or he’s doing a damn good impression of it. I lift his arm above his head and drop it. I heard once that this is how doctors check to see whether patients are passed out or faking it.
It hits him in the face, but he doesn’t wake up. He’s sound asleep.
CHAPTER 22
HAZEL
The next morning, I’m so deliciously warm. Everything is just right, and I’m so fucking comfortable. Rain taps on the roof. I’m on my side with the pillow molded perfectly to support my head and shoulder, and I’m in that hazy zone between asleep and awake.
I sigh, easing back into the warm chest behind me. Clarity cuts through and my eyes snap open.
Rory’s spooning me. That’s his warm, hard chest pressed up against me, softly rising and falling with his steady breathing. That’s his breath tickling the back of my neck.
That’s his hard, thick length urgently pressing into my ass.
His hand is wrapped around my front, fingers resting just inside the waistband of my panties.
Between my legs, heat and liquid pools, and the familiar twist of arousal stirs low in my belly. I am very turned on.
Every muscle in my body tenses and my eyes are the size of dinner plates as I lie there, listening to his breathing. From the steady rhythm, I’m sure he’s still asleep.
He shifts, grinding his erection against me, and heat spirals inside me. His fingers brush an inch lower. He’s still breathing steadily, still sleeping.
Carefully, I turn my head. His shirt is off. His socks and pants are off. He’s just wearing tight black boxer briefs.
My t-shirt? It’s ridden up to my waist, and my pink panties are on full display, not that that matters when Rory’s hand is halfway inside them.
A throb pulses between my legs. God, his hand is so big, fingers dipping inside, resting just above the sensitive areas. My lips press together in a flat line. I’m getting more turned on by the second.
The sex would be hot, I know it would be. Something wakes up inside me, demanding attention.
Once wouldn’t hurt, as long as it’s only once.
My hips press back into Rory’s cock and he sucks in a sharp breath. He’s so stiff against my ass. That thing is fucking huge. I’ll be sore for days.
Arousal tightens between my legs. I love that idea.
A memory from last night flickers in my head—Jamie asking Rory to be his best man—and my thoughts still. They’re becoming best friends again. They’ll be in each other’s lives for years. And Jamie’s so head over heels for Pippa, he’ll never let her go.
I picture their wedding, and Rory and I are seated next to each other. I picture them hosting dinners, and Rory and I make awkward small talk. Children’s birthday parties. Christmas. New Year’s. Group vacations.
A cold chill runs through me. Rory’s going to be in my life forever, and I’m cuddling with him. We have an end date to this fake relationship, and yet I’m getting far too comfortable.
Connor’s ugly words from years ago loom in my head, and I’m out of bed in a shot.
“Good morning.” His voice is gravelly with sleep as he squints at me in the morning light.
“Morning.” I whirl around, digging through my dresser for clothes.