Page 69 of Renegade Roomie

“Watch out New York, here we come!”

* * *

We make it back to the city in easy time, Dash navigating the late-night traffic as we head back to my place. I’m curled up in the passenger seat, asleep when a passing siren jolts me out of my haze.

I look around at the lights and buildings, yawning. “Wait, we’re already back in Manhattan?”

Dash grins over at me. “I didn’t want to wake you, you’re cute when you snore.”

“I don’t snore,” I protest, smiling, but inside, I feel a tiny bit disappointed I’ve been unconscious for the last few hours of our time together.

“Sure,” he said with an exaggerated wink. “If that’s the official story, I’m on board.”

“Right, the official story…” I pause, about to ask what happens with our whole ‘fake dating’ deal now we’re back from Florida…

… And not-so-fake anything anymore.

I open my mouth to ask, but Dash gets in first. “This is you, right?” he asks. pulling up to a space outside my building

“Yes!” I blurt, sounding way too cheery. “Thanks for the ride! I mean… You know what I mean. I had a great time,” I add.

He grins. “Me too. Come on, I’ll help with your bags.”

We get out, and I lead him into the lobby.

“Welcome back,” the doorman greets me. “I thought you might have decided to go join your aunt in Italy for some of that gelato.”

“Tempting!”

“Your aunt?” Dash repeats with a smirk, after I yank him to the elevators.

“Long story.”

We head up, as the question grows in my mind. Does he want to keep seeing me, I wonder, or was this just some kind of situation-ship—caught up in the undeniable chemistry and fun of the ruse? Does he want to try dating—for real this time?

Or, you know, skip straight to the part where we spend every night making mad, passionate love then eat brunch and stroll hand-in-hand at the farmer’s market on a Sunday morning—

DING!

The elevator doors interrupt my silent spiral. “This is me!”

I lead Dash to my apartment, then pause on the threshold, awkward. “So…”

“So.” He echoes.

“Marlon Brando is going to give me a hard time,” I babble. “He hates it when I go away. Needs somebody around to insult or he gets lonely.”

Dash chuckles. “Good luck.”

There’s a long pause, and I’m about to blurt an invitation for him to stay, when he lets out a yawn. “Long day.”

“Yup.” I search his face, but don’t see any hint he’s angling for an invite, so I change tack. “I have an early shift at work tomorrow,” I exclaim brightly. “So I guess I’d better get to bed!”

Dash pauses. That little telltale crease forms over his nose, and for a breathless moment, I think he’s going to say something. Ask to come in. Sweep me into his arms and off my feet—and into bed.

Then the crease smooths. Dash takes a step back and gives me a friendly smile. “Good-night, Callie. And thanks again for the weekend. You were the best fake girlfriend a guy could ask for.”

Were.

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