My chest is heaving uncontrollably so no, I’m not okay. What the hell was that? And when can we do it again?
I lie, nodding my head against him.
He breaks our connection to look around me. “Hey, I’m Ryan.”
Oh my God, Alex is here.
Then Ryan continues. “How do you know my girlfriend?”
An uncomfortable breath escapes Alex as he steps off the curb to his natural height. “I uh…we used to…”
Now who’s fumbling?
Ryan slides a forearm around the front of my shoulders, holding my back to his chest. He nods towards Alex’s jersey. “Oh,” Ryan says sweetly, patronizingly. “You’re a fan of mine.”
I didn’t notice the Devils jersey he had on, but I especially didn’t pick up on the fact there’s a number five on the front and my fake boyfriend’s last name on the back.
I have to bite my lip to keep it from curving.
“Were you waiting for an autograph?” Ryan continues.
Is it too soon to tell him I love him? Because I think I might love him in this moment.
“Yes!”
“Kev,” Alex quietly scolds.
“It’s Ryan fucking Shay.” Kevin rolls his eyes, pulls out a Sharpie, and turns around for Ryan to sign his jersey.
He continues to autograph the other two guys’ as well, but Alex goes on to claim the jersey he’s wearing isn’t his and doesn’t want to return it to the “owner” with Sharpie on it.
“We should get home.” Ryan slides his hand to my lower back, turning me towards his car. “See you at the wedding, huh?” he calls to the guys over my shoulder before placing another lingering kiss on my temple for them to see.
He opens the passenger door for me and once I’m inside, he gets down on his haunches, making us eye level. “Are you okay?”
No. Yes. What the hell just happened?
I nod. Quickly, maybe too quickly, but I’m more okay than I ever thought I would be just five minutes ago.
My gaze drops to Ryan’s lips and the bucket list item he refused. I don’t feel comfortable faking intimacy.
“What was that?” My words are low, breathy, hopeful for him to lean in and kiss me again.
He tucks a piece of my hair behind my ear. My slick ponytail must’ve gotten messed up while his fingers were threaded through it and his mouth was on mine.
“It was acting, Ind.”
Oh.
The balloon filled with reckless hope pops in my chest.
“I thought kissing was off the table. You didn’t want to fake it.”
“I made an exception. You were drowning out there. Besides, I owed you a rescue after I bombed at the fall banquet. Call it even?”
Call it even? He just gave me the best kiss of my life and it was to settle a score?
“Yeah,” I breathe out. “Sure. We’re even.”
“Good.” He offers me a smile and a reassuring squeeze of my thigh. “Let’s go home.”
17
INDY
Indy
Daily update—that kiss you saw last week was fake, but I still had to change my underwear when I got home. So, kind of real?
Stevie
If I help you move out, will the daily updates from hell stop?
I’m too far in, sis. Reminder—I warned you.
“And you’re sure?”
“I am. I checked with our provider yesterday. Our insurance policy doesn’t cover fertility treatments, and that won’t be changing at the beginning of the year. That will have to be an out-of-pocket expense.”
Falling back onto my bed, I sigh a defeated exhale. “Thank you for looking into it.”
“Of course, Indy. Have a good day.”
The head of the airline’s human resources department hangs up the phone before I grab a pillow off the side of my bed and silently scream into it.
Goddammit. I knew I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up.
Last week, I went to dinner with the flight crew while on the road for work and spilled the details of why I was wanting to earn some extra cash. One of my coworkers could’ve sworn our insurance packages were changing with the year to include fertility treatment benefits, but unfortunately HR finally got back to me this morning to snuff that hopeful flame.
I’m making enough with my salary now that Ryan isn’t allowing me to pay rent, but it’d be nice to offer him something. Honestly, I wish he’d take even a little bit so I could maybe go shopping for a new outfit and not feel guilty that my best friend’s brother is giving me a free ride while I blow some cash on fun.
Heading into the kitchen, I turn on the sink and get to work. Ryan’s been on a weeklong road trip, and I somewhat cleaned the mess I made of the apartment, although I’m sure it’s not to his standards. But last night I got burnt out and left the dishes until this morning. Honestly, I’m surprised Ryan didn’t start doing them when he got home from the airport around three AM.
He left on a road trip the morning after that kiss, and if you think I’ve thought of anything else since, you’d be sorely mistaken. The way his hands took charge, claiming me, one on my hip, one through my hair. The way his lips were commanding, but soft enough to yield to mine. Most of all, the reason he did it—because he didn’t want Alex to think he’d come out ahead.
Sure, it was all for show, but good luck trying to convince my body of that. If that was a fake kiss, I’m not sure I could handle knowing what a real one feels like.
Seeing Alex was a painful dose of reality. I had the privilege of forgetting about him until that night. Well, maybe I didn’t completely forget about him because the damage he’s done feels like a deep scar that’ll never heal, constantly opening for the rest of my life, but he has moved to the back of my mind over the last few weeks.
That night though, seeing him, realizing he views me as disposable, as a forgettable piece of his life when he had been my priority for so long, has made me desperate to try to move on the way he has.
If he can live his life like I didn’t mean anything to him, why can’t I? Why is he the last man I’ve been with? Why shouldn’t I be able to disconnect sex and love? I’ve never done it before, but I need to try. It’s only been seven months since I was living the life I thought was my forever. My heart shouldn’t be ready to move on, but that doesn’t mean my body can’t.
Maybe a physical relationship will flush him out of my system and there’s only one man I want to test that theory with.
As if he could hear my carnal thoughts summoning him, Ryan’s bedroom door opens while I’m mid-load of the dishwasher. I’m bent over, ass out, but since everything has been so fake between us, it shouldn’t be a problem for him. The attraction is all pretend, right?
When I look back, I’m pleasantly surprised to find his blue-green eyes hooded over and staring at my ass. My shorts are a little too short, but that’s what he gets.
That’s right, take it in, Roomie. And good luck blaming the drool dripping down your chin on acting.
But then I see the rest of him, my eyes coasting down his bare chest because the motherfucker is in nothing but a towel, water still dripping down his body, fresh out of the shower.
He leans against his doorframe, corded arms crossed over his damp chest, stupid fucking dimples concaving with a smirk. “Indigo Ivers, are you doing…dishes?”