Iris doesn't invite herself to join me in the shower.

She makes a point of waiting until I'm done to move into the bathroom.

It's perfectly reasonable given our arrangement.

Hell—I usually fucking hate it when women step into the shower with me.

But with her, it feels weird. Like I'm being rude. Or she's being evasive. I don't know. I don't get relationship stuff.

I push it aside. It doesn't matter. We're having fun. Stressing about this shit is why I don't date.

Too much agony. Too much baggage. Too much everything.

I dress and move back into the kitchen. The cake is nearly done. The printed recipe is smudged with cocoa powder and sugar.

Like Iris's lips.

Uh-uh.

Not thinking that shit.

Not getting invested.

I'm making frosting.

Thinking about round two.

That's it.

I get out everything I need—coconut oil, powdered sugar, coffee, cocoa powder—and start measuring.

The shower turns off.

I add the last ingredient.

Iris moves into the main room, towel wrapped around her curvy body, wet hair sticking to her forehead.

I want it in my hands.

I want to rip that towel off her and pin her to the wall.

She presses her lips together. "It seems my clothes are on the floor."

"How'd that happen?"

"Curious."

Dry and wet fold together as I stir. I keep one eye on Iris.

She's shy about dropping her towel, donning her bra, stepping into her dress. Then her panties. "I'm not going out without these."

"I can't convince you?"

"You can try."

I want to. But I'm not sure I can stand how badly I'll want to fuck her if I know she's commando.

She brings the towel to her head to dry her hair. "Is the cake done?"

"Five minutes."

"Was that really forty minutes?"

"Did it feel like less?"

Her laugh lights up her blue eyes. They're gorgeous eyes. But even with her smiling, there's a sadness in them.

I hate it.

I want to destroy it.

I hate that I want to destroy it.

I offer her the spoon "You want the first taste?"

"Okay." She moves into the kitchen. Her fingers brush mine as she takes the spoon. She brings it to her lips and licks a drop. "Mmm. Mocha icing is too good. It's criminal." Pleasure spills over her expression. Her eyes flutter closed. Her lips part with a sigh. Her brow softens.

It's like before.

Well, not quite.

But it's still fucking inviting.

She blinks her eyes open as she hands the spoon back. "I'm doing it again, aren't I?"

"You get off on caffeine."

She laughs. "Yeah. Kinda."

"Does tea inspire the same reaction?"

"It's not nearly as intense."

"Good to know." I lick icing from the spoon. It's too sweet for me, but it's still fucking good.

"Aren't you supposed to say something about how we already had dessert?"

"You giving me tips on my game again?"

"As long as you still need them."

"Turns out you're not supposed to frost a cake until it's cool."

"Ah."

"Which means you'll have to come back here after dinner."

Her lips curl into a smile. "You had a master plan?"

"If making you come again counts as a master plan, yeah."

* * *

Iris smooths her skirt as she looks around the restaurant's courtyard. "Hmm."

"Hmm?"

"Candles. Flowers." She nods to the vase with a single rose on the side of the table. "Outdoor atmosphere."

"Yeah?"

"Romantic."

I shake my head. "All the places around here are like this."

"Perfect for a date?"

"Homey."

Her eyes meet mine. "I was going to ask about that."

I arch a brow.

"This neighborhood is all families."

"And?"

"And you're not exactly that type of guy."

"You're stereotyping me again."

She laughs. "Yeah. A little." She picks up her menu and runs her fingers over its edges. "But still. You could live in Venice Beach. Closer to the shop."

"It's more expensive there."

"Is that it?"

"Mostly." I like being this close to the beach. And far away from everyone else. And, hell, I like the quiet. There's enough noise at the shop all day.

She turns her gaze to her menu. Presses her lips together. "You think it has something to do with growing up in Beverly Hills?"

Probably. I'm used to this kind of suburban paradise in the city, families and expensive cars everywhere. But I'm not that far into Santa Monica. My building is all young professionals and artists. Well, artists who can afford the obscene rent.

"Shit." She bites her lip. "I'm doing it again."

"Iris the shrink."

"At least I caught it." She closes her menu, sets it on the table, and looks to me. "No more. I promise."

"I don't believe you."

"You shouldn't. I will. I'm awful."

"You are." I lean a little closer. The moonlight brings out her blue eyes. "But I like it."

She draws circles on the menu with her pointer finger. "I'll tone it down. I swear."

I lean back. "We'll see."

"Yeah." She copies my posture. Hangs her arm over her chair. Adopts a disaffected expression.

My laugh feels fuller than usual. "You really nail me."

"It's the other way around."

"That's cheesy."

"Still."

The server stops at our table. We order dinner and hand over our menus.

She doesn't get a drink.

I follow her lead.

It's not unusual. Especially at a place without a full bar. Not everyone is into wine—fuck knows I'm not.

But still.

It seems intentional.

I straighten my back. Move closer. "How are your steps going?"

Her cheeks flush. "Okay, I guess. I feel embarrassed even thinking about it."

"Then why do it?"

"What else am I gonna do?"

"Live your life."

"Yeah…" She pulls her arm across her chest. Runs her fingers over the ink on her forearm.

You are not your mistakes.

I still don't know what it means.

What she's trying to escape.

But I want to.

"What are the other steps?" I bring my glass to my lips. Take a long sip. Fuck, I'm thirsty. She wore me out.

"It's boring."

"Not to me."

She wraps her fingers around her glass. Stares at the water like it holds all the secrets to the universe. "A lot of basic stuff. Eat right. Sleep right. Exercise."

"Sounds reasonable."

"Yeah. I guess. It all takes so much time and energy though. Don't you think?" Her eyes go to my chest. My shoulders. My forearms. "No, I guess you wouldn't."

I chuckle. "I didn't realize I was derailing your life plan with that cake."

"It was sweet. Different." She brings her glass to her lips and takes a long sip. Another. She swallows hard. Wipes her lips with her thumb. "There's other stuff."

"I imagine."

Her eyes go to the table. Her voice gets nervous. "Get in touch with old friends. Make new ones."

"How's that going?"

Her lips curl into a half smile. "I'm here."

Yeah. But she's not quite here. She's thinking something.

I'm not used to it.

I don't like it.

I want all her attention. "And Sandy?"

She laughs. "Yeah. And Sandy."

"You don't like her?"

"No. I do. Just she…"

"Can't stop gushing about her boyfriend?"

"Exactly." Iris laughs. "I thought I was the only person who found it obnoxious."

I shake my head. "I figured it was a girl thing. That he had some amazing trait I couldn't see."

"No. He's nice. And… nice." She pulls the paper off her straw and slides it in her glass. "How did you meet?"

"I did her sleeve."

She nods. "It's good."

"Thanks."

"Really. You're a talented guy."

"I know." I lean back. Press my palm into my thighs. Truth be told, I don't know what to do with praise. I'm not used to it. Not from someone I trust.

She stares back into my eyes. "I'm working on that one."

"The guys at the shop, we do a lot of shit. You're welcome to join."

"Oh baby, you're seducing me with that invitation."

I laugh. Okay. That wasn't smooth. But I'm not sure how to handle this. Usually, I'm trying to draw a hard line between my life and a woman's. "It's fun. Leighton usually comes. And Emma and Kaylee tag along too."

"Who?"

"Brendon's little sister and his girlfriend."

"Doesn't help." Her lips curl into a smile. "But thanks. I'll consider that."

"What else is on the list?"

"Figuring out your goals and going after them. I'm good on that one. School." Her posture relaxes. Like she's sinking into the conversation.

"You have anything else?"

"Not right now." Her eyes meet mine. "What about you?"

Just keeping Sabrina out of my life. And making sure she doesn't OD in some shady motel.

Yeah, they're contradictory goals.

But that's life.

"It's something." She leans in. "Something you don't want to tell me."

"It's nothing."

She cocks her head to one side, deciding if she believes me. "I know you're easy, breezy surfer boy, but you must have something."

"No. My life is exactly how I want it." Except for shit with my sister, it's perfect.

"Exactly? You wouldn't change a single thing?"

"I'd take more money, yeah. But otherwise, no. I'm happy." In theory. In reality, everything feels stale. I need different. Fresh. Her.

"Wow."

"Wow?"

She leans back. Presses her lips together. "That's… impressive. Or bullshit. I'm not sure."

My shrug doesn't come as easily as it usually does.

The server interrupts my train of thought.

She drops off our dishes. Salmon and sautéed vegetables for Iris. Steak and greens for me.

"See." She picks up her fork. "Eating right."

"I have enough game to know not to comment on that."

"You sure?" She stabs a square of yellow squash and brings it to her lips.

"I am." I pick up my fork and knife. "Anything else on the list?"

"Reading."

"When did you start this?"

"Officially?"

"Yeah." I bring a slice of steak to my mouth. It's good. Rare. Salty. But it doesn't satisfy. I don't want food. I want to have her again.

"I guess I haven't. Not officially."

"Are you going to?"

"I don't know. That's even more cheesy."

"It suits you."

"Hey." She laughs as she flips me off.

My lips curl into a smile. She has a cute laugh. And a cute don't fuck with me look. "What else?"

"Journaling. Trying new things. Why are you so interested?"

"I've never met someone so methodical about getting over a breakup."

Her lips press together. Her eyes turn down. "How else are you supposed to get over anything?"

"Feel it out."

She shakes her head. "Then how do you know when you're there? "

"How you feel."

"I'd rather have metrics. It's easier to know if I'm making progress. Like the way you lift weights."

"You have no idea how I lift weights."

"Okay. How some people lift weights. You have numbers. How many pounds you can lift or how many pull-ups you can do or whatever. That's how you keep track of progress."

"And by how strong I feel."

She sticks her tongue out. "Numbers are a better measurement."

"According to who?"

"Me."

"Not everything fits into numbers."

"Yeah. But most things do." She scoops veggies into her mouth. "You were right. This place is good. Romantic. But good."

"Orgasms per fuck?"

Her cheeks flush. "Yeah. But you have to define what a fuck is."

"How do you?"

"Um. Well. One session. Where you stay in the same place. Start to finish."

"How am I doing?"

"Excellent marks."

"I feel judged."

"Then why'd you ask?"

I stare back into her eyes. I don't know what to make of her. This whole methodical attempt at self-improvement is the opposite of the way I approach my life.

I know better than to write off shit.

If it works, it works.

But why does her life need this much fixing?

"How do you feel?" I cut a slice of steak. "You never said."

She presses her lips together. Her eyes go to the table. "Listen, Walker, I like you and I really do want to be friends. But this is kinda personal."

"I get that." If there's anything I understand, it's keeping shit that bothers me locked up somewhere safe.

"This… um… this breakup." She fumbles over the word. "It's been hard. All my old friends are on his side. And um, everything is just different. You know? I feel different. And I spend my time differently. And I'm trying to do all the things I used to love, but they feel different. I don't love them as much as I used to and I don't know why or how to change it and… And it's just a lot. Okay?"

"Yeah."

"So, can we talk about something else?"

"A breakup did all this?"

Her brow furrows. Like she's thinking of an explanation. Or maybe a lie. "It doesn't matter. I want my life to change. So I'm changing it."

"That's admirable."

"Thanks." Her eyes go to her tattoo. You are not your mistakes. "What, um, what do you do for fun? When you aren't doing this? Or surfing?"

"I read a lot. Watch a lot of movies. Go out with Dean. Or with the other guys. Work out. Go hiking."

She nods. "Nature. I think that's one of them."

"We're going on a hike next weekend. You want to join?"

"Oh. Maybe. I don't want to impose."

"Nah. You're welcome."

"You and…"

"And Dean. We're both working until early afternoon. We're all working all the time. It's a whole thing. We're supposed to hire another artist, but Ryan hates everyone."

"Is that his thing?"

"Yeah. He hates everything. He was never a jolly guy, but he's been especially miserable since his ex walked out on him. You two could commiserate on that front." If the breakup thing isn't bullshit.

Tension spreads through my upper back.

I don't like her lying to me.

But I shouldn't care.

This is casual. There's nothing about full disclosure in our agreement. I don't have any rights to her secrets.

So why the fuck do I want them this badly?

"You're really into this whole ten step thing," she says.

"Told you. It's different. Interesting."

"I get that. But I don't need anyone walking me through it. I'm a grown-up. I can find my own new things to do and make my own friends."

"Iris, you have me all wrong."

"Do I?"

"My motives are far less pure."

She raises a brow.

"It's not about helping you find yourself."

"It's not?"

"No. It's about checking out your ass in yoga pants."

"What if I hike in sweat pants?"

"Fuck. Didn't consider that possibility."

She laughs. "This is why methodical works. Besides, you can check out my ass naked anytime."

"Yeah. Or I could do both."

"Hmm. Persuasive."

"You don't want to go, say so. It won't hurt my feelings."

"Not at all?"

My smile spreads over my cheeks. "You like thinking of me wounded."

"Maybe." She scoops a piece of salmon into her mouth, chews, swallows. "You swear your motives are all located south of your waist?"

"On my right hand."

She shakes her head.

"That isn't enough?"

"Nope."

"I work with my hands."

"You have a left hand. You'll learn to make do."

I can't help but laugh. This girl does something to me. I like it. Even though I shouldn't. "You want me to swear on my cock?"

"It is the source of your motives. Supposedly."

"I swear on my cock. I'm inviting you hiking because I want to spend the afternoon staring at your ass then stripping you out of your sweaty clothes and fucking you."

Her cheeks flush.

"I'll skip the shirt."

She holds out her hand. "Sold."

We shake.