‘I asked her to dinner, and she said it was a bad idea.’
There was that other thing. Another idea he’d had to show her what she meant to him, although it was as much for himself as it was for her. It was slightly crazy. Definitely dramatic. She would undoubtedly freak out. And he was desperate to do it anyway.
‘Of course she did. Dinnersoundslike a date. She’s too easily spooked for that. Do something nice for her, obviously, but dress it up so she doesn’t realise,’ Abby said, as if it were simple.
‘How the hell am I supposed to do that?’She’d always been infuriating, but to this extent?
But when she smiled, sharp and cunning, his annoyance relented slightly. ‘Isn’t it lucky you have her best friend in the whole world to help you?’
Chapter 25
SARAH
Self Respect | Bleachers
Sarah read andreread the email that had just popped into her inbox. A few words and phrases jumped out, her brain mentally bolding and underlining as she went.
Interview.
Barcelona.
Start next month.
She had applied for the position—assistant curator of a small gallery in Spain—months before, when her office job had still held a leash on her, and upon hearing nothing back, assumed they weren’t interested.
A few weeks later, while assessing her finances for the quarter, she’d realised painting could keep her afloat, quit her job, and forgotten about the job applications she’d sent out when she was desperate for anything that would bring her closer to the art world.
Now they wanted to interview her, pretty immediately. She didn’t need a day job anymore, but she also didn’t want to spendthe rest of her life painting basset hounds. It could be a way to rub shoulders with potential private clients, even if she still couldn’t get exhibition space. And as she took in the depressing weather outside her window, a Spanish summer did sound appealing.
A year or two on her own might do her some good. Sarah had lived with Abby for so long that she’d half forgotten what life was like without her music playing too loudly or the pots clanging as she cooked. But then Erik had moved in, and they’d started splitting their evenings between the flat and Alex’s house. Initially, Sarah had missed the company. Now she loved her quiet evenings. Loved spreading out on the couch with an array of snacks and her sketchbook—even if that particular tool was betraying her at the moment—and marathoning a full season of a trashy reality show.
But immediately after confirming the interview time, Sarah looked up, and the sight of wildflowers and a single butterfly hit her like a punch to the gut.
Alex.
Alex who had hair softer than he should and eyes that made her want to hide from his assessing gaze as much as she wanted them to ascertain every tiny detail about her and hands that, yes,okay, made her feel frankly obscene amounts of pleasure but also caressed her skin afterwards and tucked her hair behind her ears when it fell across her face.
Alex who she definitely wasn’t supposed to be falling for.
But if she was considering him a reason to stay, that might have been all the more reason she needed to go. On Thursday night, when he’d stared at her painting, transfixed, then kissedher like it meant something—likeshemeant something—she’d realised how dangerous their game had become for her. It couldn’t work between them. Not when she hated his job and his friends, and he was used to dating people who were nothing like her. Because after finding little on his social media, she had googled him—much as it shamed her—and found a few results in the society pages. In the two years before alone, he’d been spotted with a hotel heiress, a social media influencer, and a lingerie model. The last one had caused a little bile to rise in her throat.
At least it was a reminder that they were fundamentally incompatible.
It didn’t matter that bickering with him was more fun than she’d had in months. Or that there was a poetry to the way he spoke about art that had reignited her own passion. Or that the way he touched her felt like heaven.
Not to mention the reason she’d insisted on secrecy and a deadline in the first place. If they allowed this to develop into anything real or public, when it inevitably fell apart, the results would be catastrophic as they tried to balance seeing the people closest to them without seeing each other. It would be far easier to heal from a fling that became a little too real for her than to deal with the fallout of a messy breakup after a few months of trying and failing to integrate their lives.
Still, they had a week until the wedding. And, like the irresistible urge to press on a bruise even when you knew it would hurt, Sarah wanted to take advantage of the limited time left on their arrangement. Maybe it wasn’t fair to Alex—it certainly wasn’t fair to herself—but she wanted it anyway.
She’d never pretended to be selfless.
They hadn’t spoken since she’d turned down his dinner invitation two nights before. She’d been too ashamed to reach out for sex after that, even if what she wanted wasn’t quite sex, but something else she wasn’t allowed to ask for. Just…him. She’d happily spend an evening listening to him prattle about Michelangelo versus Raphael while she sketched or cooked or just lay on the sofa with the pressure from his utterly glorious arms melting away the pressure of her day. But his painting was dry enough to touch and therefore collect, and that gave her a good enough reason to text him and see how the land lay between them. His reply came almost instantly, and she told herself it was a coincidence. He was busy on his phone. It wasn’t as if he’d been waiting to hear from her.
Alex: Can I come by? There’s something I want to talk to you about anyway.
That wasn’t ominous at all.
For the next half an hour, Sarah forced herself to keep plodding through emails (mostly spam and a few commission queries—that one glorious sale notification had been a blip, it seemed) and avoid putting on a coat of mascara or a swipe of lip gloss. She was in the same outfit she always wore for painting—some variation of leggings and an oversized shirt—and even as she told herself he’d seen her like this plenty, she fought not to make herself look nicer. Like if she was appealing enough, he wouldn’t be able to say no to her.
