Page 10 of Venus

The city skyline slips past the car window like we’re fast-forwarding time, glass and metal flickering in the sunlight. Callie hums along to some girly-pop song I don’t know, and I try not to think too hard about why I agreed to this little getaway.

That ‘why’ is a six-foot-tall blond.

I need retail therapy. Girl time. Whatever distraction I can find today.

We’re in the next city over. It’s bigger, louder, and thankfully lacking in firefighters who’ve seen me naked.

Callie whips the wheel into a parking garage, and the sunlight cuts stripes across her face through the concrete slats. She parks, turns the engine off, and looks at me over her chic sunglasses.

“You’ve been suspiciously chipper lately,” she says like she’s been waiting until I’m trapped miles away from home to interrogate me.

I frown. “Huh? ”

“You’ve been humming,” she adds. “And smiling. And, this is the most damning evidence of all: you’ve been washing your hair.”

I unbuckle my seatbelt with a roll of my eyes. “You’re reaching.”

She follows me out of the car with a smirk. “And don’t think I haven’t noticed how the shower drain has been clogged with your leg hair. We’ve been living together for three years, V, and you don’t shave your legs for no reason.”

Okay, she has a point.

We step out into the crisp morning air, crossing toward a row of boutique shops and overpriced coffee shops filled with granola moms. I link my arm through hers out of habit, our boots clacking against the pavement in time with a street musician’s bluesy guitar.

“I’m not trying to pry,” Callie says, even though we both know she absolutely is. “I just want to know what’s got you walking around like you’re in a tampon commercial.”

I scoff. “That’s offensive. I don’t even use tampons.”

“It’s a metaphor, babe,” she counters. “So…it’s the firefighter, right?”

My stomach flips. I play it cool. “Carter? I mean, he’s great, but–”

She stops mid-step. “Oh my God, you just called him Carter. You used his actual name. Not Vulcan. Not Vulva. You’re gone . ”

I unhook my arm from hers and keep walking, irritation creeping into my cheeks. “It’s not like that.”

“V.”

I pause in front of a boutique with a window full of bedazzled cowboy hats and glittery boots. “It’s casual,” I say, repeating the mantra I’ve been clinging to for weeks. “It’s fun. He’s just…easy to be around.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Except for the part where he texts you good morning and shares your love for the worst candy known to mankind, and gave you a nickname after a Roman goddess.”

I turn sharply to face her. “Stop being cute. This is not feelings. This is just… orgasms.”

Callie grins like she’s won. “So emotional support dick. Got it. I give it another month before you’re planning the wedding.”

I laugh despite myself and push open the boutique door. The smell of patchouli and overpriced linen hits us like a wall. We meander past a rack of upcycled denim before something catches my eye.

A dress.

It’s fire engine red. Spaghetti straps. Short enough to tease. The kind of thing you wear when you want to be the only thing someone sees in a room. Callie follows my gaze and lets out a low whistle.

I grin. “It’s cute, right?”

She tilts her head. “Planning to wear that on a real date with Carter?” She sings his name like she’s mocking me on the playground at school .

“No,” I say, but I don’t make an effort to stop looking at it. Callie takes it off the rack and holds it up to my body and forces me to turn toward the mirror.

Callie gasps. “This looks like you’re ready to ruin someone’s life. And red for a firefighter? It was meant to be. You’re going to be so smoking hot, he’ll need backup.”

I smirk to hide the blush in my cheeks, because she doesn’t know about the red lace bra I bought specifically to wear for him. “I’m hoping he’ll bring the thick hose.”

Callie chokes on a laugh loud enough to startle a woman browsing handbags. “You’re such a menace.”

I carry the dress to the checkout and pretend it’s not a symbol of anything. It’s just a dress. For a man I’m not dating. Who I’m not catching feelings for.

Just a dress.

Later that night, I try it on in front of my mirror in the privacy of my room, twisting side to side to see the full effect. My phone buzzes on my bed with a text.

Vulcan: Any chance I can see you tonight?

My fingers hover over the keyboard.

Me: Depends. You bringing snacks?

He doesn’t text back right away. I sit down on the edge of my bed and stare at the ceiling. This is stupid. I’m being stupid. I like the way he looks at me, like I’m the only thing in the room. I like…

Damn it.

Him. I like him. And I shouldn’t. I can’t .

The next buzz from my phone snaps me out of my spiral.

Vulcan: I’ll bring the snacks.

I smile.

Me: I’ll bring the dress.