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“I almost didn’t recognize you without the ‘hungover hobo’ look.”
“Careful. That almost sounded like a compliment.” He’s holding up a razor, the kind you get from a dollar store, three to a pack. The exact ones I got him. Where did his old fancy one go?
“You’re going to dry shave?” I ask.
“Normally, no. But I destr—” He glances down at the razor and then back at me. “I’m out of cream.”
Of course he is. “Elijah told me to bring… stuff. In case of emergencies.” I dig through my bag and toss him the shaving cream I brought along with the razors he doesn’t need anymore.
He catches it mid-air, eyeing it suspiciously before heading back into the bathroom and shutting the door behind him again.
Guess the beard has to go for now. Pity.
“You know, contrary to what you believe, your father cared.” I sit on the edge of the bed, arms crossed over my chest. “He believed you’d do great things.”
I hear the hiss of the shaving cream and the sound of the razor scraping his skin. “He was delusional.”
“He was your father. He wanted what was best for you.”
“He wanted a clone of Elijah.”
I stand and approach the bathroom door. “I think we remember two different people.”
Silence, then the scraping noise resumes.
I lean against the wall next to the door, my head thudding softly against it. The razor keeps scraping, and I close my eyes, trying not to picture him. But the image comes anyway. Water droplets flowing over his defined chest in rivulets, arm muscles, strong enough to pick me up and throw me on the bed, flexing and—God, I hate this arrangement.
Hate that I need it as much as he does. Hate that every time I’m near him, my body betrays me with these stupid little reactions. Like I’m still that college girl who watched him cooking, who dreamed about those hands on…
The razor stops. Water runs.
Focus. Get him dressed, get him to the event, and keep the act going. That’s all that matters.
The water stops running, the razor clatters against the sink, and the door swings open again.
“I’m done.” He emerges clean-shaven and dripping wet, the towel still clinging precariously to his hips. I’m sure he’s currently not wearing any boxers.
“So you’re coming?” I ask.
He grabs a shirt from a pile on the floor and wipes himself down absently. “I’ll tell Elijah I had a migraine. That I was too sick to get out of bed.”
“So you’re not coming.”
Again. No answer. Instead, he walks to his closet and pulls out a suit.
“I’ll come,” he says, “if you make it worth my while.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Worth your while? This isn’t a negotiation.”
The arrogant prick smirks. “Come on. Don’t you want to show the world how madly in love we are?”
“Pretending to tolerate you is my greatest performance yet.” I hold up one finger. “I’ll let you do one public display of affection. Your choice.”
Now, he’s the one raising his eyebrow. You horny— “You mean I can hold your hand or kiss you, just like a real boyfriend?”
“Yes.”
“Fuck you?”