Page 99 of Dream On

“No. And you can break whatever you want.” He watches my fingers leave invisible trails along his countertop. “I’m talking about rules for us. You and me.”

My hand pauses its unproductive trek. “What do you mean?”

“Well, dating for one. Seeing other people.”

The frown deepens.

“You can’t date anybody. No hookups while you’re out here.”

Cheeks burning, I look away. “Noted. I’m assuming the same goes for you.”

“Obviously.”

I return my arm to my side and approach him, gaze drifting to the floor-to-ceiling window. A work of art. The architecture and the view. “Will that be difficult for you?” I ask, clearly fishing. “I’ve seen the tabloids. The social media pictures. There’s always a girl on your arm.”

“You’ll be the girl on my arm.”

“I know, but three months is a long time to go without—”

“It’s not an issue, Nicks.”

We share a glance.

It’s the wrong time to be thinking about how many women he’s been with. Hundreds, probably. And it’s never a good time to think about how much that stings, considering he was disgusted by the thought of even kissing me.

Forcing away the residual shame, I clear my throat and tip my chin. “Okay. No seeing other people.”

“Good. We should also go over your interview…etiquette.”

“My incompetence, you mean.” My throat tightens. “Valid. Was Rudy pissed?”

“Pissed?” An eyebrow raises. “No, he was taken off guard by the initial curveball, but now he’s fucking delighted. This was always his endgame. You just pressed the fast-forward button and saved him the headache of trying to piece together a foolproof dissertation he could send you, convincing you to do this very thing. He says thanks.”

I blink repeatedly.

“Anyway,” Lex continues, collapsing to the couch and tossing a silk-threaded pillow to the floor. “Keep things vague in your interviews. If any questions feel too personal, I’ll take over. No talk of marriage, babies, or white picket fence shit.”

“Of course.” I press my tongue against my cheek. My thoughts go to a weird place as I stare at him sitting on the couch, and I envision future movie nights, board games on the coffee table, and sharing paper pails of Chinese takeout.

I shake away the images.

Clearly, we’ll be keeping our distance. Interactions will be brief, and the intimate, chummy moments will be reserved for the spotlight only.

Then a new thought crosses my mind as I glance down at my black tank top and worn denim shorts. “I don’t have any clothes.”

He looks at me like he’s waiting for the second head to appear. “Right. I can afford to pay you ten K a week, but clothes are sadly out of budget.”

“You don’t have to buy me clothes. I can have my sister ship my things—”

“Nicks.”

I swallow. “What?”

“Just go with it.” He leans back, our eyes locking. “I’m going to be paying for everything. Your food, clothes, toiletries, whatever. If you want a pedicure, there’s spare cash in the junk drawer. If you want to order pizza, take my card. I don’t fucking care. It’s just money.”

A warm feeling filters through me. Soft and floaty.

I’ve never lived a life without wanting for something. For more. I don’t know what it’s like to not struggle, to not yearn. Living paycheck to paycheck is a burden, but it’s also eye-opening. You appreciate everything.