Perhaps a contract would be appropriate in a situation like this.

A signed piece of paper that dictates the terms of the relationship Amelia and I are embarking on.

It could define the means by which we are allowed to interact, so whatever this is between us doesn’t turn messy. And no one gets hurt.

No one.

Her, or me.

One of the clauses could limit the amount of time we spend looking at each other when we are not in bed. Another could dictate the tone of voice we use with each other when we are not engaging in sexual relations. And most important, there should be a clause that prohibits body language as a way of communicating outside of fucking.

Because this is just about sex.

Sex.

Or it is supposed to be, anyway.

But you know as well as I do that there is a fine line between just sex and more. And that embarking on such an arrangement can lead to unfamiliar territory. Just like you and I both know someone is going to get hurt.

Someone.

Her, or me.

Putting all those issues aside because a contract to define our interaction when we are together is just ridiculous, I know I have to tread lightly and remember this thing between us is short-term. Her plans aren’t set in stone, but she’s talked about going back to New York in just over a week.

And that is when we agreed our story would end.

Therefore, you can see why treading lightly is the best course of action.

Sure, we like being together.

We have fun.

But I know it won’t lead to anything more.

It can’t.

We don’t want the same things—in the long run, that is. She wants to get married and have a family. I don’t see myself doing that. Can’t see myself doing that with the job I have now, anyway.

In the short run, we are on exactly the same page. With the sexual tension alleviated, we get along pretty well. She’s up for anything. Turns out, it’s not kink she’s looking for in a sexual relationship. She just wants hot, wild, unabashed sex. And that, I can give her. She’s never been with anyone who has bothered to get to know what it is she likes or needs in the sack. Hard to believe, but no one has helped her discover more than the basics of missionary-style sex, with some occasional oral thrown in for good measure, I suppose.

That is something I figured out the first night we were together. Every day since, I’ve taken things a little farther, drawing her out of her comfort zone and helping her explore what she has been missing. Like I said, she’s pretty much up for anything.

Monday I took her riding on the back of my bike up to Mulholland Drive in LA. She brought her camera and took pictures while I sat at Dead Man Overlook to rewrite some of the scenes in my manuscript. I saw what Amelia meant about Kate acting way too spineless, and made some tweaks. Afterward, we went to Mulholland Tennis Club, where my mother is a member, and fucked in one of the private bathrooms. I bent her over the wooden bench and took her from behind. It was smoking hot.

Tuesday it rained all day, so we went to the old movie theater in town and watched a flick from the sixties. When the movie ended, we snuck into the old viewing room that is now only used for special occasions, and fucked in there. She rode me on one of the big leather chairs. Her tits moved up and down, and I sucked on them while she came all over my cock. It was fanfuckingtastic.

Wednesday I had to work in the morning, and we spent the afternoon at The Cliff drinking mojitos and role-playing my screenplay. It was a huge help. And yes, we fucked in the bathroom. I spread her legs wide and with her palms flat against the cool metal, I took her against the stall door.

Today is Thursday, and this morning I took her to LA to tour the Chinese Theatre and see the Hollywood sign. We didn’t fuck anywhere; there was nowhere we could. But she blew me on the drive back, and she is coming over as soon as Cam crashes for the night.

Luckily for us, Makayla, who works from home, has been in San Francisco since Monday afternoon. She runs her own jewelry line and uses a company there to help her produce orders. She won’t be here until late tomorrow. About the same time Keen, Maggie, and Presley will also be arriving.

That’s when the fun and games will end for the two of us, until Monday anyway. The weekend is going to suck. Too many people around and the risk of being caught will be too great.

Getting caught means explaining. And explaining that we both agreed we’d have a sex-only relationship to the people we both care about, who have significant others now, seems ridiculous. Even if it is hot, off-the-charts, mind-blowing, no-holds-barred sex.

Of course, Amelia’s reasons for embarking on this type of relationship are different from mine, or now that I think about it, maybe they are the same.

She’s looking to end up with a man who will be her Prince Charming. She can deny it all she wants, but I was there when she was ten and tried to turn me into him. And I was there on the porch that night she showed up and voiced, in so many words, that what happened to her made her doubt what she’d always dreamed of.

She shouldn’t doubt that.

For her, I’m certain he does exist.

And for that reason, I am also certain I cannot be him. I am not husband material. In fact, I’m far from it. I’ve been with countless women. I don’t have a steady job. I don’t own a home. And I’ve never been good at being responsible.

I glance at my manuscript, and think that doesn’t mean I don’t want those things. I do. It’s just getting there. Succeeding. It scares me.

Will I be like my mother if I do? Motivated. Driven. Successful.

Or more like my father? Always wanting more than I have and willing to risk it all to get to the top.

Rewriting another of Kate’s lines, I wonder if with the changes I’m making, my mother will think it’s better.

Not to sound full of myself, I know it’s on trend.

It’s a story about an irresponsible guy finding love when he least expects it. A boy-meets-girl kind of story where the boy falls in love with the girl, but the girl is a hopeless romantic and doesn’t think the boy is for real. Through a number of twists and turns, rights and wrongs, and countless mistakes, the boy proves the girl is for him.

Fangirl is the kind of modern love story that although on trend, isn’t what people might expect, and that is what I love about it.

My thoughts begin to wander to how to make this screenplay stand out even more, make the viewer feel an entire range of emotions, when my phone rings.

“Hello,” I answer, looking at the page and not paying attention to the caller ID.

“Brooklyn, it’s Ryan Gerhardt from next door.”

I tuck my pencil behind my ear to pay better attention. “Hey, Mr. Gerhardt, how are you?”

“Listen, that’s why I’m calling. Not so well. My mother took a fall, and Pam and I need to go to Florida tomorrow.”

Leaving my manuscript on the coffee table, I walk into the kitchen and decide I should probably eat something. “I’m sorry to hear that. Is there something I can do to help?”

“Actually, yes. Pam and I were hoping you might be able to stay at our house for the weekend and take care of Romeo and Juliet.”

Looking out the kitchen window, I glance next door at Mr. Gerhardt’s giant, ultramodern beach house. “You want me to dog-sit your Yorkies?”

He laughs. “I know it’s last minute and definitely not the most glamorous request you’ll receive, but our normal dog sitter is out of town, and Pam doesn’t trust anyone else. Would you be able to spend the weekend over here and take care of them? We’ll return on Monday.”

“Sure, I can do that.” Stepping over to the refrigerator, I open it and sigh. It is practically bare, except for Maggie’s vegan items, which seem to have an unnaturally long shelf life. I really need to get my shit together and go grocery shopping on a weekly basis, and maybe even start cooking.

“That’s great,” he says. “Pam and I would really appreciate it. By the way, how’s that screenplay coming along?”

I grab the container of pasta Makayla sent home with me on Sunday. “Much better than it was last time we talked.”

“When you think it’s ready, I’d like to read it.”

A smile cracks across my face as I close the refrigerator door. “Are you serious?”

The dogs bark in the background like someone just got home, probably Mrs. Gerhardt. “Yes, I am,” he tells me. “You’ve been writing that story of yours for over two years. In a way I feel like it’s a part of me, the way I’ve watched you slaving over it on the beach day after day.”

“I just might hold you to it,” I answer, and then pop the lid off the container to stick it in the microwave.

“You’d better,” he says. “Now, about this weekend, do you have time to come over tonight so I can show you where I keep the booze and how to use the hot tub?”

Before I can answer, I hear Mrs. Gerhardt talking in the background. I give him a second to respond to her, and hit the reheat button in the meantime.

“Yes, dear,” he says. “Yes, of course I’ll give Brooklyn instructions on how to care for Romeo and Juliet. I’ll ask him to come over right now. No, my love, that shouldn’t be a problem,” he adds. “Did you hear all that, Brooklyn?” he asks.

With a laugh, I pull the leftovers out and set them on the counter. They can wait. Besides, if I know Mrs. Gerhardt, she’ll have something much better than leftovers on the stove. “Yes, sir, I did. And I’m on my way.”

Fist-pumping the air, I look over at his house through the kitchen window.

Hot tub.

Booze.

And a secret getaway for Amelia and me.

Looks like my weekend just got a whole lot sweeter.