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“Would that be a bad thing?”
“It’s make believe.”
“Again, why would that be a bad thing? I know what this is, even if you hadn’t gone out of your way to point it out. Even if we got down and dirty together, I wouldn’t mistake it as love. It’s, as you put it, a game.”
I look at her.
She’s either playing it perfectly or she’s telling me the truth. “Women have a habit of falling in love to get what they want, and men have a habit of pretending to get what they want.”
“Who hurt you?”
I almost let her go, but don’t. Mainly because I like the heat and the feel of her in my hand, I like her so close. I like that tease of flowers in the air.
“No one,” I say.
And it’s true. I don’t have relationships, just sex, and carefully curated affairs that mimic short-term relationships. You could, I suppose, argue those affairs are relationships, but they’re sex. Sex and compatibility for when I need to step out in the world with whoever the woman is by my side.
I guess that’s what this is. Without the sex. And I’m creating, not curating.
The no sex thing is not written in stone, no matter how dangerous sex with Scarlett might be.
“Everyone gets hurt.”
“Then everyone’s an idiot.” I continue to draw patterns on her hand. “My life is work and things contained in neat boxes for efficiency.”
“That’s sad,” she says, her voice soft.
I raise a brow. “That’s being smart.”
“So kissing me is smart?”
“No,” I say, brushing her mouth with mine, “that’s stupid and messy.”
“And you like it.”
“Yes.”
She’s quiet a long time, while the soft hum of awareness and attraction fills the air around us. “How are you going to pull off being in love if you don’t believe in it?”
That’s a good question. “We get to know each other like I said and—”
“Act?” She shakes her head. “You’re working to get me confused and mimic love, but you actively push it away. The idea, I mean.”
“I’m paying you, Scarlett, not the other way around. I didn’t get to where I am—family money aside—without determination and brains. I’ve got this. Just make sure you do, too.”
“Was it your parents?”
“Excuse me?”
“Who hurt you.” She’s not letting it go.
And I sigh. “Yes and no. Yes, my parents split up and my mother built her own life too close to my father’s. He kept marrying younger versions of her, and she’d be there to pick up the pieces after each one. I don’t know what they were doing, but it was counterproductive and messy and something I’ve no interest in. But no, that didn’t hurt me, just showed me how things don’t work in life. That’s all.”
Abruptly, I let her go. “Hungry?”
“Excuse me?”
“Food. That stuff you put in your mouth for fuel. I’m hungry. We’ve got more work to do because you’re going to be eyebrow deep in everything this week in regards to work and I can’t check over things, so measure twice, right?”
