Page 34 of Most Likely to Match
“I have that,” he says excitedly.
“But Jasmine says detergent is better becausespray cleaners are very harsh on fibers.”
Dean’s shoulders slump. “It’s not coming out.” He doesn’t sound panicked, though. More resigned.
I come up behind him, place a gentling hand on his back. I’m still not wearing any underwear. My dress feels too loose, stretched out around me, a combination of sweat and the fabric actually stretching.
“The couch is old, right? Want to try the upholstery cleaning spray anyway?”
He straightens, huffs out a long sigh. “Nah.” In one swift movement, he lifts the cushion, flips it over, and stuffs it back down into the couch. “There. Fixed.”
I nod. Crumbs cling to the former underside of Dean’s basement couch, another stain— unidentifiable— marks the upper left corner, but it’s definitely an improvement from what we left there.
I hold up my hand, waiting for him to smack it. He frowns, gazing between me and my open palm. “Tappe-la.” French for high five. Though from the way he grins, slapping his palm to mine but threading our fingers together, a quiet laugh escaping his lips, my attempt to speak French again has more than adequately demonstrated my continued need for his tutoring services.
“My parents are going to wake up soon,” he says. He squeezes my fingers.
I tap my free thumb on the phone screen. “Holy shit.” It’s almost two in the morning.
“Their flight leaves at like ten a.m., so, obviously, my dad wants to be at the airport at like four.”
“Obviously.” I nod, but mostly to hide my flush. I’m not sure what I was thinking. It’s not like we could sleep here on Dean’s parents’ basement couch. Not like we could have an easy weekend morning. One where I’d be more than willing to forgo my usual long run for coffee and maybe a dip in his pool.
None of that’s actually possible, not just because Dean lives at home with his parents right now, but because we aren’t a couple, and those are obviously Couple Things.
I don’t evenwantCouple Things, I remind myself.
What we are is business partners— its own can of unprofessional worms— and former friends with benefits and, I guess, current friends with benefits, as well.
I squeeze his hand back. I can take comfort in that, at least. There was a time, not so long ago, when I wouldn’t have been able to consider Dean a friend at all.
“Right. Totally.” I turn to gather my things. What things, I do not know. I can’t remember what I brought with me, if anything. “I’ll get going.”
He tugs me back to him, his hand still clasped firmly around mine. “You could stay, though. If that’s not weird?”
He holds me to him, one arm wrapped around my hip. “I’m just saying, we’ve already gotten caught by the cops for public indecency, messed up my mom’s furniture, and lied by omission to my dad. That’s like the maturity regression hat trick.” He shrugs. “Why not sneak a girl into my room, too?”
“Are you sure?” I ask. I’m scared that I’m overstepping, even if he invited me himself. And more than that, sleeping here maybe won’t help me separate what we just did with the professional relationship we’re supposed to be cultivating.
“Am I sure I want a hot girl to wake up in bed with me in the morning?” He looks up to the ceiling, pretending to think about it, and in this moment, I know it doesn’t really matter what I’m supposed to be cultivating; I’m going to say yes.
“Yeah. I’m pretty fucking sure.”
6
DEAN
She follows me up the stairs, careful to avoid the loudest steps when I point them out to her. Every footfall sounds loud to me, but I get her into my room without even a break in my father’s snores. I find a t-shirt for her while she closes the pocket door of the shared bathroom behind her.
As a kid, I always wished for a sibling to share the bathroom with. Instead, the room on the other side has always been a combination rarely used office and spare bedroom. Pretty happy I don’t have one now, though.
I knock on the door when I hear the water running in the sink. “Where are your keys?” I ask in my loudest whisper.
The water shuts off, and a few moments later, the door slides open. “In my bag.” She points to the tote bag sitting precariously on the edge of my bed. “Why?”
“I’m going to move your car onto the street. Just so my parents don’t ask too many questions.”
She laughs, sort of awkwardly.
