“You’re supposed to live here now,” he says. I balk at that, as I dry off from the shower.

“I’m supposed to live wherever the fuck I want, Liam. Besides, there’s shit I need at my apartment. And stuff I left over at Rhiannon’s. I usually go to Pilates on Sunday. And then I work. On Monday, and the rest of the days of the week. You know, like regular people. I can come back tomorrow night.” I pause. I want to sound cool and noncommittal. “Maybe.”

“Go to Pilates or whatever it is you Brooklyn inhabitants do. If I had known you actually lived there — I might not have invited you up. Or given you the privilege of being my fake girlfriend.” His voice is gruff, and I get the sudden sense that he’s displeased with me. Worse, that feeling makes me unsettled, upset. I try to shove it all down.

“You’re an asshole,” I mutter, but when I look at him he’s smiling. For some reason, that makes me even angrier. The fact that he got to me, that he made me think for a second that he was serious. The fact that I’m even here right now, toweling off in his bathroom, with its yellow paint peeling off the walls. Most of all, I’m angry at myself for taking everything he says seriously.

In the back of my mind, I’m already moving things in. Playing along. Doing the favor that I didn’t know anything about until this morning. And there’s something fucked up about that. Something dangerous. When I think of his hands on my body, I want more. Another fix. Another hit.

And then I want to scream. Yell. Shout and kick the wall.

That’s the thing about Liam Dougherty. He makes me want to throw something at him, right this instant. His empty tube of toothpaste, or his deodorant with its heady scent of pine and spice. But I decide against it, opting instead to dry my hair, and give him a withering glare.

Isn’t that what a real romance heroine would do? Make him guess if she’s interested, keep him on his toes.

The reality is much simpler.

I’m here because I want him, I think. Because last night was incredible. Better, far better, than any night I’ve had in years.

“I’m teasing,” he says. “Or am I?” He slings a towel around his waist and watches me as I shake out my hair and run my fingers through it.

“See, I need a brush. At least. Plus, some people’s girlfriends do occasionally go home.” The word makes my stomach drop. Girlfriend. “Even if his fake girlfriend is moving in for — how long?”

He doesn’t answer directly, which makes me grit my teeth in frustration. “Not mine. We need to impress this bitch’s private investigator. Or whoever she sends around the way. You need to live here. Be domestic and shit.”

“How long am I supposed to stay? To keep your kid away from — her grandmother?” I look over to him, and a corner of his mouth raises into a smile.

“A month or so.” He crosses his arms. I’m aware of them, the sinuous muscle. The strength of his fingers. “And I wouldn’t use the word, ‘grandmother.’ Grandmothers bake cookies and play board games. Knit little flowers and shit. My ex’s mom — she just bullies people.”

“Your ex? Not just a fling?” I keep my eyes locked on him. I want to know. I need to know.

“I don’t talk about her. Not to anyone.” His mouth is terse, and the entire presence of his body changes — harder, angrier. “She’s gone. She can’t take care of Brie. And her mom is a piece of shit.”

“Is she okay with Brie? Like, most of the time?” I ask quietly. “I know you said she wasn’t… kind — ”

Liam looks over at me, slapping aftershave on his face. Harshly, like his face owes him money. “She tells Brie she’s not smart enough for kindergarten. That she doesn’t have friends because her parents were junkies. That God hates me and her mom.” He stops and swallows hard, pushing back some emotion I can’t quite place. “And she spanks Brie. Hits her. Not enough for a judge to take away custody just like that. No bruises. Just a little girl who’s scared, who cries. She says her stomach hurts when she sees me. Marta doesn’t hurt her enough that I could even document it properly — not in this burrow anyway. The judges are a little old school here. Spare the rod and all that bullshit. But I was hit. And I’m not planning to let anyone hit my daughter.” He cracks his knuckles. “If I can get her back, I won’t let anyone hurt her again. They’ll have to get through me first.”

“I can’t say I understand. I don’t have kids,” I say, carefully. “But I’ll help you. I’ll try.” I don’t realize that the words are coming out of my mouth until I say them, but there it is.

I do want to help. I think again back to my bed, my nightstand. I can get back to that after this, can’t I? It won’t go away. My life, just as it is, will still be there. And nothing will change. It’s what I tell myself, but as I pull on the gray dress again, his eyes sear into me, and I’m not sure if I’m right or wrong.

“Good.” He glances at me. “I’ve been clean for a year, just so you know. I drink some. And I’ve had my fair share of girls here, but that’s no secret.” He runs his fingers through his thick brown hair. “But I’m not a junkie now. Haven’t been in a long time. I keep myself healthy. Tested. Clean. Like I said.”

I shrug, like it’s no big thing. “Okay. You know, I trust you when I hear you say that this is the best place for her. You don’t have to give me every single reason.”

He steps closer to me, pulling me to him by the waist. He takes me and kisses me hard. These are the actions of a lover, more than a casual fling. The way his tongue finds mine again, the way my body melts into his. But I ignore the alarm bells going off in my head, and instead I focus on the aching warmth spreading through my center.

It’s just sex. And all of this — it’s just a favor.

That’s what I keep telling myself. This is all an adventure, and it’s turned into a way to help someone — a little girl. And her dad. It’s not because of his dark, changeable hazel eyes, hooded with lust, the way they look over my body with hunger. It’s not his lips pressed against mine, or his hand pulling at the strap of my dress so that one shoulder is bared. He kisses me there, and I gasp.

“I do need to get back to my apartment,” I murmur. “Then I can come back. We’ll… talk about all of this later.” He brushes aside my hair and grabs my ass, pulling the other strap of my dress away from my body — abruptly, harshly.

“You said you were in, Skye. Are you?”

I nod slightly. “I am.”

For your sake. For the little girl. And maybe that whole virginity thing I’ve been hung up on for so long. Separately, those seem like terrible reasons. Together, they make one adequate reason. And oh — fuck — what am I agreeing to?

Before I can form a more coherent thought, he kisses me again. He presses into my thigh, his cock hard.

“I need to go.” I swallow.

“You’re coming back,” he says.

“Yeah. I am. Tomorrow. I don’t work on Tuesdays so I can stay — maybe — ” I sling my purse over my shoulder and walk to the door without saying anything more. If I say anything else, it might all feel too real. Like we’re making a date or planning something for the future, even if it’s for the very near future. There’s something tugging deep inside of me, something that I don’t recognize. I never felt that way with Charlie. Part of me wants to turn around and stay the rest of the weekend. Let him teach me. Train me. Have his way with me.

“The orgasms are guaranteed,” he says. When I turn to look at him again, he’s peeling an apple, the knife moving in a rhythmic circle. He’s skilled — even at this. I think of those hands. His tongue. This is how he is.

“Good. I guess that’s what got me into this mess.”

He shrugs, looking at me nonchalantly like his tongue wasn’t just deep inside of me. My cheeks grow hot as those hazel eyes land on mine. “This mess. That’s a good word for it.” He pauses. “You know a realtor? Or a property manager or anything? Or anyone who does events?”

“No,” I say cautiously. “I might know someone who knows someone, though. Why?”

He takes a bite of the apple, and the juice runs over his chin. “With you, I might have a chance of getting my daughter back for good. Full custody. The whole nine.” He takes another bite, and I find myself staring at him, not really listening to his words. “But a six-year-old shouldn’t be living in a shitty apartment above her dad’s bar. We need to find somewhere real to live.”

“Hold up. I thought you said we were living here.?”

He doesn’t acknowledge that I’ve said anything. “Just a little upgrade. An apartment outside of Hell’s Kitchen. Very slightly outside. Nothing fancy. Just functional. You can decorate it with some of your shit from Brooklyn. I’m sure it’s nicer than mine. I know a moving company — ”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Yeah, I am. Get on the stick. We need a place before next Sunday.”

“In New York?”

“No, in fucking Connecticut. Where the fuck do you think we’re going to live? Of course, in New York.” He sounds amused, like he’s given me the easiest task in the world. “It’ll be fun. Like ‘House Hunters.’ Those kinda shows couples watch when they’re buying a house. Except we’re not really a couple, and we’re looking for an apartment that’s not a cesspool.”

“I don’t think that’s — ”

Feasible? Reasonable? A good idea?

“It’ll fall into place. We’ll have a bedroom for Brie. And if it doesn’t work out, you can leave like you never knew me. But something about today makes me feel lucky.” He finishes the apple and tosses the core in the trash. “Come to think of it, maybe it’s you. I’ll pay you fifty bucks if we can’t find a place. Come on. It’ll be a challenge.”

I cross my arms. “We can try. But I can guarantee we won’t find anything before next week — ”

“Fine. Whatever. As soon as possible.”

“Where does Brie live now? Where’s her school?”

“Marta’s in Queens. But that doesn’t matter. Queens sucks almost as much as Brooklyn these days.”

I turn to leave, but something strikes me. “What’s this about an event planner too?”

“Nothing,” he says. “Just need to have our bases covered. Make it all look real.”

“I’ll get an apartment for us in a few days. Give me a few. Three days.”

“Fine. I’ll be thinking about you until then,” he says. His grin is downright lascivious.

I leave, heart pounding, like the conversation we just had was normal in any way whatsoever. It wasn’t.

But I’m still on a high from his touch, and I float back to Brooklyn, just like that.

What would it hurt?

Along with all the excuses from before, it’s this thought that absolutely does me in.