Page 22 of All Twerk, No Play

Eric shook out of his own reverie. “Self-paced courses at Spotify University.” Then his smile widened. “Your bedroom set is assembled, want to see?”

I followed him to inspect. He’d found the box with the linens and made the bed, stacking the pillows and folding a cashmere blanket along the foot.

Thank God he hadn’t unpacked the box with the contents of the nightstand, I’d burst into flames.

I held out my hand in gratitude. When our fingers brushed, his lip curled in distaste and pressed my hand back with a disarming smile, “No need, Cobrita.”

“I would have paid for assembly,” I said, pushing the bills harder into his palm. Heat simmered between our palms as our gazes locked in a standoff.

He broke the contact with a boyish shrug, brushing his empty palm against his jeans.

“Need anything else before I go?” he asked, but he’d already done too much. He’d loaned me his air mattress then his bed, come upstairs on his day off to help with assembly …

And he hadn’t taken my money.

It raised my suspicions. Had he Googled me after last night? Was he was trying to butter me up to eventually request something bigger?

“No, I think that’s it.”

We walked towards the foyer. He frowned at the boxes in the living room, then turned to the front door where his air mattress was folded and cardboard lined up for him to carry out.

When he barged in and insisted on helping with the furniture, I’d wanted to be alone. But now that he was preparing to leave, a lump formed in my throat.

It took a moment to realize why: I needed to balance the scales before he left.

But he’d refused payment. Even buying a replacement air mattress wouldn’t match. No, I needed something at the same level.

“Wait,” I said, racking my brain for a problem I could solve.

The woman. The woman at the club who hadn’t understood the terms of their one-night stand. How could I help him explain that he was done with her? And articulate to future women that they couldn’t just have their way with him?

“I have a legal question for you,” I said. His eyebrows shot to the ceiling when I asked, “What does sex with you entail?”

"Shake It Off," Taylor Swift

Cruz

“Whatdoessexwithyou entail?” she said, shocking the shit out of me.

“That’s a legal question?”

“You need a contract,” she said, suddenly in motion to her office. “For the women who won’t leave you alone.”

She returned with a briefcase, pulling out a laptop and perching on a stool at her kitchen island. I opened my mouth to say that no way in hell would I ask a person to sign a contract before we slept together …

But I hesitated.

She was thinking about sex with me. She wanted details. And even though she was my tenant and I shouldn’t think about sex with her and this was a terrible idea …

I couldn’t wait.

I dropped the air mattress and shut my mouth.

When she pulled cat-eye glasses out of her bag, I gripped the granite island. There was no way I could leave, not when she was playing into a harsh librarian fantasy.

She typed like Kermit the Frog’s maniacal keyboard-smacking GIF. “When a woman—wait, I shouldn’t presume—when a person claims their one night, what is the implicit agreement?”

“That’s up to them,” I said, reading over her shoulder:

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