by Penny Wylder
Or maybe not something mundane. Maybe something sexy as hell. Maybe they're flirting right now, and she's running her foot up the inside of his leg, suggesting they go back to her place. Or maybe they're already in the cab, and she's all over him, sitting in his lap, kissing him, tongue down his throat as she straddles him.
Maybe they make it back to her place and he's throwing her against the door of the apartment the way he did to me one time last week, pinning her hands over her head as they kiss, and sliding his hand down the front of her skirt. Maybe he's spread-eagling her across the couch and going down on her. Or maybe she has her head between his legs and she's sucking his cock, better than me, making him cry out in pleasure.
Maybe he's realizing at this very moment how tedious it is to hook up with me again and again. Maybe he's savoring the chance to have someone new, someone more interesting, someone he hasn't claimed yet.
Maybe tomorrow I'll wake up alone in this suddenly too big and too empty apartment, all too aware of the fact that he doesn't give a damn about me, doesn't care about me as anything more than the next fuck, just like this girl he's hooking up with at the bar right now.
My stomach coils into such a tight knot that I fear it will never recover. Against my better judgment, I turn my phone back on. Check my messages.
No new messages.
Of course not. Because he's out there with her somewhere, having the night of his life. A night away from me and all the clingy, too-heavy emotional baggage that comes with continually hooking up with your roommate, your coworker, the crazy woman who asked you to impregnate her with no strings attached.
I feel sick.
That's when the elevator dings.
I sit up straight, my gaze shooting to the light above the elevator that just began to glow in the foyer. Cannon's back. But will he be alone?
I can't stand the tension. Can't stand sitting here to watch. So I flick off the TV, grab my cell, and speed-walk back toward my bedroom. I slam the door just as I hear the elevator ding open on our floor, spilling open, revealing the people inside. I brace myself for the worst—to hear a girlish giggle or the sound of Cannon and this anonymous date sucking face.
Instead, all I hear is his steady, deep baritone voice calling out.
"Rina?"
I hesitate. Glance at my closed door. Hover next to it for a second, listening. But I don't hear anything else. No clack of heeled footsteps, no second voice in the living room.
Hesitantly, I turn the knob and swing the door open. I pretend to rub sleep from my eyes, faking that I'd been asleep. It's only 10PM, but I have had a long night, after all. A long night of driving myself crazy imagining all the worst scenarios possible.
But I walk out into the living room to find Cannon thankfully, blissfully, alone.
It takes every ounce of self control I have not to let the sudden flood of relief that flies through me show on my face. "Hey," I say, hoping my voice sounds steady, normal. "You're home early."
His expression looks the same way that it did earlier today in the office when I told him he should go on the double date Chris proposed. He looks wary, hesitant, careful, in a way that I'm not used to seeing from him. Not lately. Not ever, actually—even before we complicated things between us by having sex, we never hid things from one another. Not like this. "Got tired," he says, and fakes a yawn. I can tell it's fake, because he doesn't stretch his arms over his head the way he always does when he yawns. Instead he stifles it with one hand and then heads past me toward the kitchen.
"Date didn't go well then?" I ask. I can't help it. And I also can't disguise the way my voice shoots up a level when I do ask.
Damn it.
“Oh, you know, nothing serious.”
“Your favorite kind of date,” I point out.
He laughs, and my stomach sinks. Was he into her? Does he want her because it’s less complicated? “You know my MO too well,” he replies, and that doesn’t help my overactive nerves.
What does she have that I don’t?
Or is it just that she’s the next new thing? The one he hasn’t had yet? I think about my ex. The way he dumped me from sheer boredom, after all our time together. I steel myself for the worst. “That the only update?” I push.
"If you're asking about Chris and Lacy, I'd say that's going perfectly. They're actually really compatible I think."
"Yeah." I allow a small smile to creep onto my face. "I agree. Who would have thought? Lacy always swore she’d never date a guy who drinks vodka tonics, watches basketball or messes around at work. Now she’s hooked the trifecta.”
Cannon snorts. “Well Chris always claimed he wouldn’t date a woman who could beat him at pool or curse more proficiently than him, either. Yet against all odds, I think he actually likes Lacy.”
"Fingers crossed,” I agree.
He catches my eye. Holds it. "Guess you never know who you’ll click with, huh?”
My heart skips. Stutters. Does he mean me? Or is he talking about the girl he met tonight? I want to ask. Every fiber of my being screams to know. But I’m afraid. Afraid of what the answer might be.
Besides. NSA. We agreed. That means he’s free to date whomever he wants. Free to feel whatever he wants for anyone he desires. “Guess not,” I murmur, and push myself toward the kitchen to start making a cup of tea before bed.
"Right," he echoes. Keeps that steady, narrowed gaze pinned on me. His mouth parts again, as though he's going to say something more. Explain. Instead, he just shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. The motion makes the edge of his shirt lift up, and I can't help myself—I cast a quick glance at his abs where they peek through between the hem of his shirt and his jeans, slung low on his hips.
Then he walks past me in the kitchen, toward the door to his bedroom. "I'm pretty beat though. Long day."
"Yeah," I echo.
On the threshold of his bedroom, he pauses. Part of me thinks—hopes—that maybe he'll ask me inside. Instead he just catches my eye. "Next week you start to ovulate again, right?"
I swallow hard. "Friday, yeah."
"Great. Well, I'll see you then for sure," he says. "Sleep tight, Rina." On that note, he swings his door open, then shut after him.
I'm left staring at the wooden panel, wondering what on earth I'm supposed to take from that.
12
Cannon
Fucking hell.
I can't focus. Can't concentrate. Can't accomplish anything at work. Can't focus at home, either—because she's everywhere. Her scent is all over our apartment. Half her bathing supplies are in my shower since we've been sharing lately. I keep finding her long red hairs in my bed, and I roll them between my fingers every time, wishing things were different. Wishing she felt the same way that I do.
But she made it clear how she feels. When she told me I should go on that date with Chris's friend. When she told me that next time I'd find someone I had a connection with. I'm not an idiot. I can take a hint. She's reminding me of our terms. Reminding me that I'm not supposed to catch feels here—I'm supposed to be her sperm donor, nothing more.
Never mind that it's driving me insane to think about her going about her daily life without me right now. Never mind that the thought being with anyone else but her makes me sick to my stomach. Never mind that the thought of her with anyone else but me makes me want to tear that imaginary guy limb from limb with jealousy.
Never mind any of that.
Except that I can't. I can't forget about it. I feel like I'm going crazy. Is this how normal people feel? She walks past my desk, and I lose a whole half an hour of work, first from watching her pass, then from thinking about all the other times I'd watched her walk by today, then from thinking about what I want to do to her, right now. If we could sneak into one of the supply closets maybe, lock the door from the inside, then I could peel that dress off her body and trace the curves that I've come to know so well...
"What are you spacing out daydreaming about?"
; I startle and glance up to find Chris hovering next to my desk. I shake my head and turn back to the work at hand—work that I've barely been able to focus on at all, all day. "Nothing. Just really don't want to finish this report," I bluff.
"I can tell. Spencer was asking what's up with you, whether you've been drinking too much lately or something. He's worried."
I grimace. Spencer is our boss—and normally he doesn't concern himself with our day-to-day shit. If he's getting worried about my performance, then things must be even worse than I thought. All because I can't focus here, can't focus anywhere. "I'll get it together," I mutter.
"Good," Chris is saying, but I can hear from his tone that he's distracted already. I look up, only to find him gazing across the office at a completely different distraction.
Lacy looks good today, I have to admit. Again, I'm totally biased in favor of Rina, but Lacy has a glow about her I've never noticed before—not to mention she's curled her hair and put on a super expensive-looking outfit, all tight curves. To judge by the way she keeps peeking over her shoulder in Chris's direction, I think we can all guess why she's pulled out all the stops lately.
"What about you?" I nudge him with an elbow, mostly to force him back off my desk, which he's begun to lean on in his distraction. "You seem pretty spacey lately too."
"Three guesses why." Chris groans and runs a hand through his hair.
"What's the matter, did you bite off more than you can chew this time?" I smirk. "I thought you were the expert at these things."
"Maybe. Listen, can we get lunch later, actually? I need some... advice, I guess."
My eyebrows shoot skyward. In all the years we've known each other, I don't think Chris has ever once asked me for advice. Even when he needed advice, he'd never actually ask for it. "Okay..." I reply slowly. "Chicken Brothers at 1PM?" That gives me enough time to finish the pile of emails I'm currently snowed underneath—that is, of course, assuming that I can pull my head out of my own ass for long enough to focus through this stack of work.
"Fine by me," he says, already shoving off my desk and drifting back toward his own. "See you there."
Chicken Brothers, the sandwich shop down the block from our office, is crammed with people when we arrive. We find a table near the back, and order the same thing we get every time—Chris orders the chicken fingers, because as I tell him every time, he's secretly a kindergartener, and I order the double chicken patty sandwich, because as he always tells me, I'm an overeater.
Personally, I just think he's jealous that my metabolism works fast enough that I can eat pretty much whatever I want and not lose the cut of my muscles unless I completely foreswear the gym entirely, but that's neither here nor there. Today, for once, I don't feel like making fun of him as we sit down to our separate meals, and I watch him disinterestedly pick over his chicken finger selection, not even taking a single bite yet.
"Well?" I finally prompt, after far too long of sitting here across from one another in what's quickly growing into an awkward silence. "Are you going to tell me what the hell is up with you?"
"I'm in hot water with Spencer too," he finally admits with a groan. "Behind on all my deliverables, making up excuses every ten minutes for shit. Hell, I haven't responded to a single email all week, and it's already Friday. What the hell is wrong with me?"
I lift my eyebrows. Whatever I expected from this lunch, it wasn't this. "You're normally so on top of things."
"I know, I know. So are you, though," he points out with a glance. "Maybe it's something in the air."
"Or something in skirts and heels," I reply with a sarcastic lift of my brow.
"Or that," Chris groans. He sets down his latest chicken finger, still covered in ketchup, abandoning any pretense that he's actually going to eat the thing. "I don't know what the hell has gotten into me lately, Cannon."
"Tell me about it," I say, meaning one thing, but Chris takes that as an invitation.
"Suddenly it just seems like all I can think about is Lacy. I've never been one for pulling that kind of shit, you know me. I like to get in, get out, and get back to my comfortable life before anyone can sink their claws into my chest. I know how relationships turn out—I've seen the fallout of those everywhere my whole life."
I nod in sympathy. After all, both Chris's parents divorced, remarried, and divorced again. I don't blame him for being a bit gun-shy about relationships, coming from a home like that.
"But suddenly, with her, it just... The sex is great, don't get me wrong—I keep coming back for more for a reason. But just... Why can't I get her out of my head, now that it's all said and done? Why do I keep thinking about her constantly and why do I actually feel like maybe for once I might actually... want more than just the sex?"
I shake my head and steal a chicken finger from his plate, having already finished most of my sandwich. I mean, hey, if he's not going to eat them... "I don't know, dude," I tell him, head still wobbling from side-to-side. "It sounds like you might actually like this girl for once."
"But that's not something I do," he protests.
Believe me, I know all too well how you feel, I think. Though of course, I can't say that out loud. "Why can't you try it?" I ask, reasonably, as I finish off my sandwich and reach for my soda.
"Because." He flings his hands in the air. This draws stares from more than a few of the other customers, and Chris groans, then leans forward and lowers his voice.
Shit. He sounds almost as crazy as I feel thinking about Rina. I sympathize.
"Look. We went into this knowing that we're both players, and thinking it'd be fun to try playing the game together. But it's like you said when you first asked me about Lacy—she's casual. Chill. She's not looking for anything more than hooking up right now. And I thought I wasn't either—I never exactly have been before. We're not on the same page here, at all. She wants just a hookup. So I can't go and tell her how I actually feel, because that would screw it all up. Plus, we work together, think how complicated it will get when this ends, let alone if she knows I have feelings for her that she doesn't reciprocate?"
I sip my soda thoughtfully for a minute. "But you do," I finally prompt.
He frowns. "Do what?"
"Have feelings for her."
His scowl deepens. "It's not like I want to. I didn't sign up for this."
"No, dude, I know, but you're in it now. You like this girl. You could actually picture yourself having more than just a hookup with her, for once in your life. Is that right?"
He heaves a sigh and stares past me, over my shoulder, spacing out for a moment. "Yeah. I guess that's about right. Accurate summary of the situation. So what? Doesn't change anything."
Except.
Except that I already know from talking to Rina about their situation—which she's been following avidly, getting all the new details from Lacy every step of the way—that Lacy is in a similar position. She started to wonder if this relationship could maybe be more. If one day, they might actually be a couple, and not just fuck buddies.
I can't tell Chris that, obviously. It would be betraying Rina's confidence, not to mention it would piss off Lacy to no end to learn that Rina told me everything, I'm sure. The whole situation is a mess, but to me, from where I'm sitting on the outside, it's such a mess that it's almost laughable.
I mean, Lacy is probably having this exact same angst-filled conversation with Rina over their lunch right now. She's probably agonizing about the fact that she's realized she actually likes Chris, despite knowing that he's a player and the last guy in the office she ought to be starting some fling with underneath everybody's noses. Her feelings are running deeper, but she thinks she's the only one, so she'll never open up to him, never tell him what she's actually feeling.
And here he's sitting, with the exact same problem, which could be easily solved if the two of them would set aside their fears and egos for a minute and have an honest heart-to-heart conversation.
I almost have to laugh.
Almost.
But Chris is my friend, and besides, I know all too well what this feels like from his side of things. After all, Rina and I are different. Rina isn't like Lacy. She isn't the type to catch feelings, especially not in a situation like this, where she specifically laid out what she wants. Yes, I might get vibes from her sometimes, sense that she likes me a little bit more than she lets on, but she was clear about what she wanted out of our arrangement.
A baby. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Our mess is completely different from theirs. So much more complicated. But it doesn't mean I don't sympathize with the guy.
"Listen, I know this is going to sound weird," I tell him. "And I know you aren't necessarily going to believe me. And that's fine. But just, for what it's worth... I think you should go for it. Okay?"
Chris frowns. "Go for what? There's nothing to go for. This is just me being an idiot."
"You don't know that, dude. Not until you actually talk to Lacy. For all you know, she could be in the same bind as you right now, okay? Take it from someone who's a little farther away from the situation than you, so I'm able to see things a little bit more clearly. The way Lacy acts around you, the way she's been dressing to the nines every day at work lately, the way she's always catching your eye in the office? That's all a clue. A hint that you two might be in the same boat. But you're never going to know unless you say something to her. Do something about it."
He scowls. "What if you're wrong, though? What if it is just me, what if I'm imagining that she reciprocates because I'm just seeing what I want to see in this situation?"
"If you're wrong and she's not into you in the same way, then so what? At least you know. At least you can move on then, and see things for what they really are. Isn't it always better to just put yourself out there and know the truth?"