Page 38 of Role Play (Off the Books #1)

Sora

“I’m impressed by your handyman skills,” I say, watching Forrest finish meticulously applying painter’s tape along the baseboards of what will soon be Dakota’s bedroom. “If I were doing this alone, it would’ve been a disaster. I didn’t plan on taping anything.”

Forrest glances up at me, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “You mean you wouldn’t have taped the trim, or put plastic down on the hardwood floors before slathering purple paint all over the place? What could possibly go wrong?”

“In my defense, I’ve never painted a room before. It’s not something I was ever taught.” I adjust the bandana keeping my hair back from my forehead.

“Let me guess, your dad also never taught you to change a tire.”

I snort in laughter. “That’s hilarious. I don’t even think my dad can change a tire. I was born and raised in Manhattan. We never had cars. Drivers, sure. But not cars.”

“Ah, rich-girl problems.” He smooths down a section of tape with practiced precision.

“Not exactly. We had a driver because my mom didn’t like to take the subway alone, or bring a bunch of strange taxi drivers around a newborn baby.

My dad was never around to help, so having a personal driver was one of the few luxuries she allotted.

Otherwise, we always lived well below our means, even after Dad’s fame exploded.

” I dip my roller in the paint tray, watching the globs drip off the brush.

“That’s too much paint, Sora. Like this.

” Forrest puts his hand over mine and guides the brush against the clean, ribbed part of the tray, taking off the excess.

“Hear that sound now? Just a little sticky—that’s perfect for your best adhesion.

Now, this paint has built-in primer, otherwise you would’ve needed a base coat.

But now you can go straight to the wall. Long, smooth strokes.”

“I got it now,” I whisper, staring at his hand over mine. I don’t flinch or pull away like I normally do. This time I let myself enjoy the warmth of his palm over the back of my hand until he releases me, proceeding to fill his own paint tray with purple paint.

“How long should the strokes be?” I pause with my brush about two inches from the wall, wondering what in the hell possessed me to think I could pull this off with no experience.

“Just do whatever you like, cookie girl.” He holds up his roller brush. “I’ll come around and clean up after you.”

“I’ll take ‘cookie girl’ over ‘little conch shell,’” I mutter to myself, pressing the purple color into the clean white wall.

Forrest chuckles lightly to himself. “Speaking of your Korean name, what’s your mom like? You seem to be a lot closer to her than your dad.”

“Don’t tell Daphne, but Mom’s my best friend.”

“What’d she say when you told her I was moving in with my daughter?”

I release a deep exhale. “I haven’t told her.” Since Mom’s stomach bug on my birthday a couple weeks ago, I’ve made excuse after excuse about a reschedule. Mom thinks I’m deep in the writing cave. Truth is, I haven’t written one word.

I’ve been distracted.

“What about your dad?” I ask, changing the subject as I carefully roll paint onto the wall. “Is that where you learned all this home-improvement stuff?”

“Yeah. Ranch life,” he says, applying paint with efficient, even strokes that make my amateur attempts look pathetic.

“Growing up, if something broke, you fixed it yourself. My dad wasn’t the type to call in professionals unless it was absolutely necessary.

Plumbing, electrical, building fences, raising and painting barns—I’ve done it all.

Other kids played sports or started bands, but I worked after school and on weekends. ”

“That must have been hard as a kid.”

“I must’ve thought that at the time. But now, I’m grateful.

” He shrugs, moving to another section of wall.

“But it taught me to be self-sufficient. My dad worked me hard, but he was always right there beside me, showing us how to do things properly. He never asked me to do something he wouldn’t do himself. ”

I study his profile as he works, noting the softness that enters his expression when he talks about his father. “You really admire him, don’t you?”

“He’s old-school. A good, simple man. Honest, hardworking. When everyone else in my life judged me for walking away from law, he just asked if I was sure about my decision. When I said yes, that was the end of it. He’s supported me ever since.”

“Even with your current job choice?”

Forrest’s roller pauses mid-stroke. “He doesn’t know the details. Just that I work in ‘client services’ in the city.”

“That’s not technically a lie.”

“No, but it’s not exactly the full truth either.

I think he knows I’m lying, but he doesn’t push.

As long as my career supports Dakota, he doesn’t care.

Fatherhood is something he takes very seriously.

If he thought I wasn’t taking care of my daughter, he might get on a plane for the first time in his life, and try to belt me.

” He snickers as he resumes painting, his movements more deliberate now, like he’s trying to get the job done.

“Speaking of your career…I’ve been meaning to ask you something that’s been on my mind. How many women have you slept with? For work, I mean.”

The silence that follows makes me regret the question immediately. I sneak a glance at him to find him staring at me, paint roller suspended in midair.

“That’s what you want to know?” he asks finally.

“If you’d rather not answer, I completely understand.”

He returns to painting, though his strokes are more measured now. “I don’t keep count. That would be weird.”

“So a lot, then,” I press, not sure why I’m torturing myself with this line of questioning.

“Not as many as you probably think,” he says carefully. “A lot of clients just want company. Someone to take to an event, make an ex jealous, be arm candy at a business dinner.”

“But some want more.”

“Some do, yes.” He looks at me directly now. “Is this going to be a problem? Because if it makes you uncomfortable thinking about what I do?—”

“No,” I say quickly. “I’m not judging you. I’m just curious. I’m a writer. I ask people questions, that’s all.”

He looks unconvinced but doesn’t challenge my flimsy excuse. “It’s not like I’m out there every night with a different woman.”

“Do you have regulars?” I inquire.

“Only Celeste.” He cocks a brow. “Which, like I told you, is strictly non-physical.”

Something tight in my chest loosens at that revelation, which I immediately scold myself for. I have no right to feel relieved.

“What about you?” Forrest asks, clearly trying to turn the tables. “What’s your number?”

I nearly drop my roller. “I’m not telling you that.”

“Why not? You just asked me.”

“And you didn’t answer,” I argue.

“I made an attempt. I told you, I don’t keep count.”

I sigh dramatically. “Fine. Three. Happy?”

“Three?” He sounds genuinely surprised. “Serial monogamist, huh?”

“Is that so surprising? Some of us actually need a connection before we jump into bed with someone.”

“And yet you were ready to jump into bed with an escort you’d just met,” he points out.

Heat floods my face. “I was high. And it wasn’t sex, I just wanted to…

” I’m not sure how to finish that sentence without making things more awkward.

I just liked how he took me out of my head.

He turned the worst night of my life into one of the best and I wanted to hold on to that feeling.

I thought the only way he’d stay with me is if money were exchanged.

“Wanted what?” He pauses painting, and blinks at me.

“Nothing. Forget it.” I focus intently on the wall in front of me.

“No, now I’m intrigued.” He sets down his roller and walks over to me, paint-flecked arms crossed. “What did you want, Sora?”

“I don’t know. I wanted a normal night with a normal guy.” The second the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve messed up.

His playful expression falters slightly. “As opposed to abnormal me, the escort.”

“No. That’s not what I meant.” I set down my roller and move closer to him.

“Isn’t it?” His eyes bore into mine, searching.

“No, it’s not.” I reach out impulsively, touching his arm. “I’m sorry if it came out wrong. I just meant… Look, I got lost in wishful thinking. I think I was paying for an experience. It felt nice when I thought you were into me. That’s all.” Oh god, I sound pathetic.

His expression softens. “For the record, I was into you. The first time we met. That wasn’t an act. I came to talk to you after your meeting. You blew me off.”

For a moment, we just stare at each other, the air suddenly charged with something heavier than our usual banter.

“You liked me?” I don’t even believe the words as I say them.

He grins sheepishly, breaking the tension. “But then I got to know you,” he adds, “and discovered the real horror.”

I gasp in mock offense. “Excuse me?”

“Your taste in paint colors.” He shakes his head sadly, turning back to the wall. “It’s truly tragic.”

“You made the final decision. This is your travesty.” I dip my fingertips in the paint can and flick them at him, splattering his shirt with tiny purple dots.

His jaw drops. “Oh, it’s like that, is it?”

Before I can retreat, he’s swiped his own fingers through the paint tray and is advancing on me with mischief in his eyes.

“Don’t you dare,” I warn, backpedaling. “This is my good painting shirt.”

“As opposed to your bad painting shirt?” He lunges, and I dart around him.

We dance around the room, me trying to avoid his paint-covered hand, him trying to corner me. It’s ridiculous and childish and somehow the most fun I’ve had in ages. I’m laughing so hard my sides hurt, and when he finally catches me around the waist, I surrender with minimal struggle.

“Okay, okay. Truce,” I gasp through my laughter.

Instead of painting me, though, his fingers find my ribs, tickling mercilessly.

“Forrest,” I shriek, squirming in his grasp. “Stop.”

“Admit that you’re attracted to me.”