Page 77 of We Can't Be Friends

CALLUM

Chloe’s already in the kitchen this morning when I get downstairs. She’s pushing buttons and twisting knobs, making an espresso for her iced latte. The temps dropped this week. When asked if she’ll switch to hot lattes, she casted me a glare and told me tofuck off; iced coffees can be drunk at any time of the year.

Dark chocolate hair pulled loosely into a bun at the nape of her neck.

Her oversized shirt of the day shifts across her mid-hamstring. The cream-colored shirt has a polar bear eating a Klondike bar on the back of it. In navy blue letters it says “I’D DO YOU FOR A KLONDIKE.”

I can’t help but snicker. . . and agree.

“Morning, Henry.”

“Sullivan.” She tosses a wave over her shoulder. “Did you move my coffee cups? I can’t find them.”

“Yeah, check the cabinet above your head. I figured it's more convenient since the espresso machine is there.”

She looks over her shoulder. “That’s sweet.”

Stretching her arms above her head, Chloe reaches for a glass cup with colorful flowers. Rich terracotta skin pours from beneath her shirt as it rises up, giving me a view of her lacey and extremely cheeky underwear.

I rub a knuckle over my eyes and blink a couple of times.

That is definitely black ink on the outer corner of her right cheek.

Chloe Henry has a tattoo on her ass.

The shirt falls back into place, covering the tattoo again. Chloe finishes making her coffee as I bite my tongue, thinking about that tattoo.

I find all of her tattoos wicked attractive. The variety and detail. All of them are black. One arm is covered in a field of flowers. The other is what she calls a sticker sleeve. Smaller, fine line tattoos. Twenty of them, like the twenty freckles on her face.

Swirling her glass straw—I’ve learned a lot this week about reusable straws—Chloe pulls out the stool across from mine.

She sets her cup on the counter, her tattooed fingers curled around the glass, dropping her elbows next. Ping-ponging between me and her iced latte. Her tongue dips out of her mouth, licking her bottom lip.

Opening the junk drawer, Chloe pulls out a pad of paper and pen. “Seriously? Your junk drawer is even organized?”

Just because it’s junk doesn’t mean it can’t have a home. Pens are lined up, containers that separate Post-it notes from sharpies and batteries. If I need something, I don’t want to have to dig around to find it.

“You never made me sign a lease.”

“Why would I? There’s no need.”

“Thought you were Mr. Business? Don't contracts get you off?” I stare blankly at her. “Fine,” she grumbles. “If not a lease, then an agreement to this.” She gestures between us. “Terms and conditions to. . . us.”

On the top of the paper she writes: Pretty Boy’s Live-in Fake Girlfriend Arrangement.

I choke on a laugh.

I hate this. There’s no reason for us to be doing this, but if it makes her happy, if she needs me to do this, I’ll participate.

“Rent. I’d like to pay something.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Chloe, you are already paying for your other place and you aren’t even living there. Plus, this place is paid off.” Liam paid in cash for the entire place last summer.

“Okay, money bags.”

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