Problematic Summer Romance (Not in Love, #2)(56)

He’d never be so gauche as to parade designer brands in any real courtship. The boxes he has delivered are too flashy, with no element of surprise—the opposite, in fact. He’s not sending me Tiffany jewelry and Hermès sweaters because he wishes me to have them. He just wants Georgia, Alfie, Rose, and everyone else who visits my apartment to know he’s still interested in me. Continue keeping up the charade.

“Why doesn’t he bring them to you in person?” Alfie asks during D&D night. With each passing day he becomes more unfuckable to me. What did I used to see in this whiny, clueless, cowardly little shit? I wish I’d taken notes. I want a word with past Maya.

“Because he’s a fancy finance boy, or something,” Sami says. “I bet he’s in Singapore, disrupting the local economy.”

“Conor’s a biotech investor.” I looked that up. “But yeah, he got busy. He might come to visit soon, though,” I lie.

“And disrupt you.”

I grin at Sami while Georgia and Rose giggle and Alfie rolls his eyes. Later, once the session is over and I’m alone in my room, I toy with the idea of picking up the phone and calling Conor.

“Whenever,” he said.

I check the hour. It’s the middle of the day, back home. Lunchtime, in fact. Why not? He’s probably having a protein shake. Or training on the rowing machine in his river-view gym. I bet he has time for me.

And yeah, he does. Because he picks up after exactly one ring. “Everything okay?”

“Hello to you. Where are you?”

“Office.”

“Ah, yes. How’s Austin doing? Still being taken over by the tech horde?”

“That one’s unstoppable, I’m afraid. Maya, are you okay? Is there anything you need?” There’s some urgency. Like he’s ready to jump on a plane. Again.

“I just wanted to talk to you.”

A pause. A long pause. “When I said to call me if you need anything, I meant—”

“If I needed a kidney, or a rec letter for an internship, or five hundred thousand dollars. I know. But what if I want to…” A dramatic pause, for effect. “Talk.”

“We shouldn’t—”

“Talk?”

I can almost see him leaning back in his chair. How long does it take to memorize someone’s mannerisms? Could it be less than forty-eight hours? “This is highly…”

“Fun? Joy-inducing? Welcome?”

“Problematic.”

I huff. “What does ‘problematic’ even mean? It’s way too broad a term. Variable definitions.”

“You know exactly what it means.”

“Mmm, I’m currently dealing with memory loss.” I settle in the chair. Stretch my legs on the desk. “Did you close the Mayers deal?”

“Of course.”

“Is that why you’re dropping some serious cash on all these gifts?”

“No. It’s because—”

“You want to make my roommate think that we’re going strong, I know. I’m grateful that you’ve chosen to pepper the brand names with cute stationery. And please, keep the food coming.”

A noise on the other end, and—he’s laughing. I made him laugh.

My body is ablaze.

“So, yeah. I did want to thank you for the gifts. But above all, I wanted to thank you for the orgasm. It was insanely good. Best sex I’ve ever had.”

“Jesus Christ, Maya,” he says roughly.

I smile. “And I’ve been wondering…is it a you thing?”

A confused: “What?”

“See, I’m single. And horny. I’m trying to replicate what you did to me as closely as possible. In order to do that, I’m going to have to isolate the variables—”

“Maya.”

“—and figure out where to get my fix of…carnal pleasure.”

Is that a growl? “Do not use the word ‘carnal.’?”

“Why? You hate it? Is this a moist situation?”

He sighs. I can feel the puff of air, even across the ocean.

“My question is: Do you think it’s because you’re older, and wiser, and more experienced? Should I be looking into dating older men?”

“Don’t. No older guys. They’ll only take advantage.”

“Not all older men take advantage,” I contradict him. “I recently hung out with this ancient guy who was super nice—”

“I know him well, and he’s a shithead,” he interrupts, harshly. A little too harshly. “Goddammit, Maya. Just find a twenty-year-old. Any twenty-year-old.”

I don’t know why, but it feels, just a little bit, like he’s running an ice cream scooper in the inside of my stomach and tearing out its lining. “Is that what you want?” I ask quietly.

“No. It’s not what I want, because—I don’t care, Maya. It’s not my business who you date, fuck, hang out with. All I care about is your well-being, and I have already jeopardized it once.”

The last couple of words are as close to yelling as he’s ever gotten with me. It makes my heart weigh a million pounds, how much he does, in fact, care. How misguided he is. How stubborn about the boundaries of the life I’m going to live, about the shape my happiness is allowed to take.