It's a simple question, but it feels profound.

You want some company?

I have no idea.

Thankfully, the question isn't some.

It's not a date with someone.

It's Walker.

I want to get coffee with Walker.

I want to get lunch and ice cream and dinner and post-dinner coffee with him.

And I really, really want to lead him back to my apartment so he can fuck me senseless.

I want it too much.

It's dangerous.

I press my lips together. I try to find a polite no. Thanks, but I need to get to work.

Thanks, but I think it's best if we never see each other again.

Thanks, but how about we skip the coffee and go straight to the backroom slash office instead?

I stare into his eyes.

I don't want to say no.

I want to say yes.

It's just company.

Just coffee.

I nod. "Only if you promise it will be great coffee."

"I know just the spot."

* * *

The air is warm. The breeze is soft. The sun is high in the bright blue sky.

It's a beautiful day.

But then, it's always a beautiful day on the Westside.

Venice is a lot like the gated community in the valley where I grew up. It's more crowded and less sauna like in the summer. And it's harder to find parking. And it's a million times more hip.

But it's the same lemon sun and bright sky.

That particular cliché about California is true.

The breeze rustles the palm trees lining the street.

It's picture perfect.

A sunny spring day by the beach.

A walk with a gorgeous, tattooed man.

"I hope you don't mind hipsters," Walker says.

"My haircut doesn't give me away?"

He laughs. Tugs on my backpack straps. He's wearing it. Holding it for me. Like in high school. "And now you have ink. You're on your way."

"Mom would be so proud." She already is. My parents suffocate me with praise. It's sweet. But it's too much. You're so strong, Iris. You've already made it a month. You'll get through this. And Lily will come around. You'll be best friends again. We'll be one big, happy family again.

"Is she?"

"Yeah." I run my fingers through my hair. I'm still buzzing. I can still hear the tattoo gun's hum. I can still feel the needles on my skin. "Do you usually ask women about their moms on dates?"

"I told you. I don't date."

"Then what is this?"

"Coffee." The back of his hand brushes mine. "And conversation."

"It's been a while since I've been on the market, but I'm pretty sure that's called a date."

"Ah."

"What do you mean ah?"

"Explains a lot."

"What?" My rubber sole hits the pavement. My canvas shoes are comfortable. But ordinary. At least they're purple. That gives them personality. And it's something I know. I love the color purple. It's not much, but it's a start. "If you tell me I was rusty, I'm going to—"

"Hit me?"

I shake my head. "Dig my water bottle from my backpack and pour it on your head."

"Viscous."

"I try." I let the back of my hand brush his wrist.

He leans into the touch. Brushes his fingertips against my palm.

"What did it explain?"

"I'm not sure I can answer honestly with such a brutal threat hanging over my head."

"Are you chicken?"

His laugh floats into the air.

It makes me warm. Fills me someplace I'm normally empty. There's a distinct lack of laughter in my life. I want more of it. More of him.

"Well, some of us have balls." I drag my fingertips over his palm. "And I'm not afraid to say it. Coffee and conversation the day after sex is a date."

"You want it to be a date?" He nods to the street to our left. This way.

I follow him onto the slanted street. It's familiar. Somehow. "I'm not looking for a relationship."

"A fling?"

"Depends on the definition."

"Hmm."

"You're doing it again."

He laughs. "Maybe."

We stop at a red light. I turn to him. Stare into his dark eyes. I can't quite figure them out.

This is a date. A date he invited me on. But he's insisting it's not.

Maybe he's as terrified of commitment as I am.

His eyes are inviting. Dark. Deep. Beautiful.

Ahem.

"You are not your mistakes." The light turns green. He takes my hand and leads me onto the street. "You messaged me about it a while ago."

"I was working up my nerve."

"It takes a lot of people a while."

"And you?"

He laughs. "Not anymore."

"Now it's more like I have an hour to kill, let's find some free skin?"

"Close. But not quite. That no swimming shit is serious."

"And you're a swimmer?"

"It's not obvious?"

No, it is. He's carefree. Tan. Toned. Broad-shouldered. "You're a surfer?"

"I know." He flips his wavy hair. "Not a blond. I defy stereotypes."

"Are you from Southern California?"

"You won't believe me."

"I'm from the Valley. Try me."

"Ah."

"This again?"

He nods to the coffee shop on our left. It's all white with a blue sign and curvy letters. I recognize the chain. It's from San Francisco and each iced coffee is tiny, expensive, and to die for.

"I'm going to have to call off this non-date."

"You like it." He moves into line behind a guy with hipster glasses. "Besides, I'm buying your coffee."

"But it's not a date?"

"Call it what you want."

The guy in front of us finishes his order. We move forward. Walker orders the fancy black iced coffee. I order the fancy sweetened one.

Mmm. Sugar and caffeine. Truly, the source of all happiness in the world. Especially when other vices are off limits.

My tongue slides over my lips. My thoughts get sharper. More focused. It's the same as it was. I know. It sounds ridiculous, but it's the same to my brain.

Mmm. Fix. Almost. Here. Need. It. Now.

My toes tap together.

My fingers tap the counter.

Now.

I. Need. It. Now.

I force my fingers to steady.

I can handle waiting for coffee.

Really.

I press my hands into my sides as we move to the pick-up counter. This is a small shop. Hardwood floors. White walls. Three shiny white tables with uncomfortable looking trendy chairs.

And coffee.

All the sweet, sweet caffeine and sugar I need.

I force myself to look at Walker. Conversation is a good distraction. And this is a date. I need to carry my half of it. "Where are you from?"

"Beverly Hills."

I don't believe him. I stare into those eyes, trying to figure him out. He's telling the truth. I think.

"Told you."

"But you're…"

"You're stereotyping me?"

"No. Then I'd be saying you must really have issues with your parents to rebel from your life of privilege."

"Ah."

"You seriously have to stop with the ah."

"Are you going to escalate the threat to coffee on my head?"

"That's a waste of coffee."

"That gives me leeway." His eyes light up as he smiles.

It really is a nice smile.

I admit it. I stare. I stare until the barista is calling my order. Then I pounce on my sweet, sweet caffeine.

Mmm. Sugar. Coffee. Happiness.

"Shit, Iris. You're making me jealous." Walker presses his palm into my lower back as he leads me toward a table.

"Am I moaning that much?" I am. But I can't help it. It's so good.

He nods as he takes a seat. "I like it." He looks up at me with a wicked smile. "This is familiar."

My cheeks flush. Thoughts of last night fill my head. His fingers curling into my thighs. His lips on my skin. His cock driving into me.

Ahem.

I sit.

Cross my legs.

Take a long sip.

Stare at my new ink instead of at him.

"Is that one mistake, or a few?" He sucks his coffee through his straw.

"A few." Hundred. Or thousand. Or maybe hundred thousand.

"Something in particular?"

"Yeah."

He doesn't ask for an explanation. He just leans back and drinks his coffee.

I copy his cool posture. His oh, look how relaxed I am, but I can't nail it. My limbs feel awkward. My back is straining. My arm just won't hang over the side of my chair.

He laughs. "Am I that obnoxious?"

"Not quite."

"I usually ask people about their ink. What it means. Most people want to talk about it."

"I already paid you."

"And fucked me."

"True." I take a long sip of my coffee. "But you don't strike me as the kind of guy who has to convince women to fuck him."

"I don't know. Tried pretty hard last night."

"Yeah. You want to get out of here? That's an entire sentence."

"Usually I pin 'em to the wall right there."

"Really?"

He raises a brow. "What do you think?"

"I don't know. You're different than most of the guys I know."

"The grad students?"

"Yeah." And the guys from my old job answering phones. And from my old life. Every part of it.

"Your ex have a name?"

"Ross."

"When did you breakup?"

"A few months ago." Right before I went to rehab. He's still in love with old Iris. He still wants her back. He texts every so often. Sometimes, I give into my loneliness and text him back.

I miss him. He wasn't a great boyfriend. He certainly wasn't a good influence.

But he…

He was fun. For that Iris.

"Who did the dumping?" Walker sets his drink down. He leans close, intrigued.

"Hard to say exactly."

"Oh?" He raises a brow.

"You really don't date."

"I told you."

"You're asking all the wrong questions."

"You mean girls don't get wet talking about their exes?"

"Not usually."

"Shit. I better make a note." He pulls a marker from his pocket, uncaps it, and scribbles on his arm. Don't ask babes about their exes.

"Or their moms."

He adds or their moms. "I appreciate the tips."

"Uh-huh."

He caps the marker. His eyes find mine. They're bright. Joyful. "Really."

He's a fun guy.

More fun than Ross.

Certainly better in bed.

Certainly more interesting.

"Was he your mistake?" He takes another sip.

I follow suit. I'm already halfway done with this coffee. I can order more. The price is a crime, but I have plenty saved, and I have my stipend, and my parents are more than willing to offer money anytime I need it. Even after everything.

"Is that a no?"

"I don't know. That's a hard question. The person I was then was happy with him."

"And who was she?"

"Someone else."

"When did you breakup?"

"On Christmas."

"Shit. I'm gonna have to buy you another coffee."

"You really are digging yourself into a deeper and deeper hole." I take a long sip. Mmm. Usually, I wouldn't let him buy me another coffee. But I'm tempted to take him up on his offer. Not just for the caffeine. But for everything.

"You have anyone you call?"

"Hmm?"

"For sex."

"Oh." I fight my blush. Wet my dry throat. "Not at the moment." Or ever. But he doesn't need to know that.

"Me either."

"Oh."

"I like you, Iris. I had fun last night. More than I've had in a long time."

"Really?"

"I know. I seem like a slut. I am." His brow scrunches. He's thinking something. He must figure it out, because understanding spreads over his expression. "But I'm tired of one and done. I want something steady. With someone I like." His eyes meet mine. "With you."

"What exactly do you want with me?"

"I want you to be my fuck buddy."