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“Everyone always asks how long you’ve been dating at some point,” he said.
“Okay, I’ll grant you that. I guess we should call this our first date.”
“So I’m not getting a kiss when it’s over?”
I laughed, though my cheeks flushed red. It felt so strange to be having such a discussion.
“Well, not on the lips.”
“So a peck on the cheek, maybe? That first date centric enough?”
I gave him a look, drumming my fingers on the table.
“I’m starting to regret ever having opened my mouth,” I growled.
“So when’s the first kiss on the mouth? Then when does the tongue come into play?”
“Is this really necessary?” I said, growing increasingly exasperated. He had a way of getting under my skin. “I mean, how often do you tongue kiss in front of other people?”
“Have you SEEN my partners? I got in the elevator with Mason and Megan the other day. Not only did they tongue kiss, but he grabbed her ass, and she lifted her leg and curled it around his thigh. It was fucking intense.”
I felt suddenly hot. I needed a break to compose myself. The coffee beckoned. I sipped half of it down, gasping at the end.
“Well, I guess we’ll just have to play that by ear. If—and I do mean if—maintaining the illusion of our relationship requires the two of us to make out in an elevator, then I’m more than willing.”
“More than willing?”
I cringed on the inside.
“It’s just a turn of phrase, don’t make this… weird.” I laughed and took another sip of water. “I mean, it’s already plenty weird, right? We’re sitting here and discussing the physical parameters of our relationship—our fake relationship—and I’m worried about you making it weird.”
“It’s uncharted territory for both of us.” He raised his glass. “But I think we can make this work.”
“I think so too,” I said, because I believed it.
“So, kissing is in,” Stan said, holding up a hand to forestall my protest. “Eventually. What about hand-holding? Hugging? Public displays of affection? Are they on the table, too?”
“Well, sure,” I said with a shrug. “I mean, that’s the kind of things that couples do, right?”
“So that means you’ll have to, say, sit on my lap if we’re hanging out with my fellow partners?”
My cheeks burned and I couldn’t quite look him in the eyes.
“Sitting in your lap?” I laughed anxiously. “Is that your thing?”
“You’ve never seen girls sit in their guy’s lap before?”
“I guess I have, I’ve just never done it. Or felt the inclination.”
“Interesting.”
“I mean,” I swallowed hard to clear the lump out of my throat. “I don’t think I would sit in your lap right away.”
“Why not?”
“It’s pretty much a broadcast signal that we’re fucking.” I tripped over my own tongue to correct that little Freudian slip. “That is, a signal that our fake relationship had, um, moved into the bedroom.”
“Okay, so at one point would we be having pretend sex for our fake relationship?”