I roll my eyes. “Quick day at work for you?”
“Not at all.” He leans against the wall. “I have a client meeting me here in an hour.” He looks at Dean. “Did you sign for a package in my name earlier?”
“Yeah. It’s in your room.”
“Thanks.” He walks past us, still looking slightly confused. He returns seconds later and tosses both of us a pack of labels.
“What’s this for?” I ask.
“It’s for the next time you two decide not to get along. Just label your shit the second you start feeling angry and agree to not touch each other’s stuff.” He laughs and pulls his phone out of his pocket, holding it up to his ear. “Yeah, I’m here. I’ll meet you downstairs and bring you up.”
He ends the call and looks at both of us. “You two mind letting me use the living room for a few hours when I get back?”
“Not at all.” “Sure.” We say in unison, smiling at him, waiting for him to shut the door.
The second he’s gone, we both jump up from the couch and look for the condom we were trying to find before.
“This is exactly why we should’ve gone to your room,” I say. “And this is exactly why ‘friends’, especially friends who used to be more than friends, shouldn’t have sex.”
“Do me a favor and remember that the next time you start shit between us and slip your hands into my pants.”
I blush and flip over a couch pillow, finding it. I point to it and he rolls his eyes, as he picks it up and throws it into the trash.
The ping of the elevator returning to our floor sounds and he looks at me.
“Are you going to stay out here and watch him work?”
“No, I wasn’t planning to. Why?”
“I think we should go get dinner together, then.”
“Dinner?”
“Yes, as friends.”
“Then we’ll go half and half?”
“No.” He looks offended that I would even suggest that. “I’ll pay.”
I look at my watch. “As long as you promise we’ll be back by ten. I have an early day at the gallery tomorrow.”
“I’ll have you back at nine.” He walks toward the door and grabs our coats off the rack. “That way we can be ‘friends’ in my room before you go to sleep.”
“You’re ridiculous and insatiable.”
“Always when it comes to you...”
***
The next day at work, I watch the clock above the register, counting the minutes as the time slowly ticks by. Although having sex with Dean yesterday was amazing, my body hasn’t had enough time to recover, so I’m beyond exhausted.
Only seven minutes until close.
Our conversation over dinner last night was shockingly emotion-free. We discussed surface stuff only—movie, films, books, and there were very few personal anecdotes. (I’m assuming this is the way it’ll have to be for us to get along long-term.)
As the second hand on the wall ticks past the twelve, I grab the “now closed” sign, tempted to hang it now, but the last time I did, the bell above the door chimed with only seconds to spare. The walk-in was an older gentleman, dressed impeccably well in a three piece suit, and I knew without asking, that he was “old money.” He introduced himself as Ethan Bradley and insisted that I give him the “official” tour, stopping to admire each and every single collection, admiring the skill and inspiration of the various artists. That night, I didn’t get home until well after midnight, but luckily, the commission I earned from Mr. Bradley’s purchases was enough to cover my savings for the next few months.
I glance at the clock again.
Three minutes...
I walk to the front of the Gallery and slowly lower the shades one by one, crossing my fingers, praying like hell that no one walks through the door.
Less than a minute...
I lower the last shade and shut down the monitor at my work station. As the clock finally strikes seven, I deposit all the cash into a lock box, set the alarm, and switch off all the lights in record time.
As I double check the locks on the door, I hear the sound of a familiar voice calling my name from behind me. And then I feel someone touching me.
Startled, I drop my keys and turn around.
“Shit, Dean!” I say, trying to calm my heart that’s now beating frantically in my chest. He stoops down to help me pick up my belongings, as I return everything to my purse.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” He hands me my purse.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m about to hang out with a friend,” he replies with a small smile on his face. “We’ll probably be out all night.”