Page 87 of We Can't Be Friends

Liam ignores my lack of response. “I have. Any thoughts?”

“We can get it for a better price. They are asking for too much money. The current property is not worth that much. We should reevaluate the specs on the structure and where it is located. If we were a half-kilometer closer to the Mediterranean Sea, I would say maybe for that price.”

“I agree. What would you counter?”

We bicker back and forth about a new price to offer on a hotel in Monaco. It’s comforting knowing he wants and seeks out my opinion. I’ve never worked for anyone else, but I’ve heard horror stories of employees' voices quieted by ego at the top.

Liam has never been like that, nor do I think he ever will be.

We stay on the line, working and catching up. When I hear footsteps in the other room, I hop off the phone, hoping to catch Chloe in the kitchen.

She’s swiftly moving around the kitchen feeding Tucker, showered, and dressed for work. Acting as if nothing happened. I wonder if she’ll bring it up. Or remembers at all.

After talking with Liam, I know he suggested talking to her, but I still don’t know what’s best. I don’t want to force her to talk ifshe doesn’t want to. Or maybe she does and is waiting on me? I want to do what’s right, be what she needs.

I peer over my cup of tea that desperately needs reheating.

“Heading to get coffee with Emerson.”

“Is she in town?” I ask, confused. Liam didn’t mention that on the phone.

“London. We’ve been FaceTiming on Monday mornings since she left.”

“Want a tag along?”

“No.” Her nose scrunches.

“Okay.”

“I’ll see you later.” Her pillowy pink lips smack, bag swinging off her shoulder as she leaves with nothing of last night said.

25

CHLOE

Living with a GQ model is doing remarkably great for my spank bank.

Every day, something new is added. At least when he leaves for work before me. . . and I love it. Fitted to perfection, I swear the man had each fiber of his clothing tailored specifically for him.

Like today, right now, midnight blue fabric wraps around muscular, sculpted by years of rugby, thighs. A crisp white shirt stretched across broad shoulders and tucked into the trousers with sleeves rolled up. Skin still holding onto its summer glow, his forearms flex and you can see his veins. His suit jacket is slung across the back of a chair, and his tie is loose, hanging around his neck. Cal unbuttons the top two buttons of his shirt.

I wonder if I stare at the remaining buttons long enough, will they also become undone?

Callum Sullivan looks like a snack when he’s wearing a suit, and I love snacks.

Big snack girl.

I’m scrolling my phone in one hand, the other hand twirling the straw to an afternoon iced coffee when he walks into the living room.

“You missed your mouth.”

“You missed your mouth,” I mock him as I rub my skin where the straw attempted to penetrate my cheek.

Cal holds out a paper towel to me. “You’ve got a little something right there.” He drops the paper towel, instead brushing his thumb over the corner of my mouth. “You were drooling.”

He flashes me a crooked smile. Brows raise.

“Not any different from you.” I catch the way he watches me, eyes lingering on my legs, or my chest when my nightly shirts are a little too worn, the material thin.

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