Page 62 of The True Love Experiment

“Right, fuck off, but then she seemed to get it,” I say. “Honestly, she sees right through me.”

Nat lets out a happy little whimper and I point at her. “Not helpful.”

“Sorry, I just like the idea of her seeing through you.”

“Well, it’s got us in a fucking mess now, hasn’t it?”

“You’re not suggesting you put your dick in her because she’s perceptive,” Ash says, and Ella smacks his shoulder.

“No. It’s because”—I scrounge around for an answer—“Fizzy is so…” I end the thought with a growl. “Fizzy.”

“Connor,” Natalia says gently. “Youlikeher. A lot.”

“I do.” My shoulders go slack like I’ve been punched in thestomach because now the truth is out there: my feelings are a pile of tangled complications and there is no way to safely maneuver myself out of any of it. “And I’m supposed to find her soulmate.”

“What are you going to do?” Ella asks.

“My job,” I say with a shrug. “What choice do I have? I’m definitely not having sex with her again.”

“Unless it’s another accident,” Ash says.

“Fuck off.”

He laughs. “Well, maybe the show will flop.”

Ella smacks his shoulder again. “It’s not going to flop,” she insists. “Why would you say that?”

“Because maybe that’s Connor’s way out! He didn’t want to do this. It wastheiridea. If it flops, then clearly it wasn’t agoodidea, and that’s not on Connor, that’s on Blaine!”

“Blaine was pretty clear about what I’m supposed to do. And they’ve sunk a fortune into this, so I have no excuse. It has to work.”

When the doorbell rings, everyone freezes.

“Here we go,” I say, pushing away from the counter. I stop in the doorway to the hall and turn to face them. “Please, don’t stare at us the whole time. It’s already going to be weird.”

“Of course not,” Nat says.

“Or ask her a ton of questions,” I add. “On top of everything else, she’s probably quite nervous.”

“You lookquite nervous,” Ash says.

“Piss off,” I say under my breath.

As I walk through the house, I give myself a little pep talk. I am thirty-three years old. I’m producing a show with an enormousbudget that’s about to premiere on national television. I’ve overseen entire productions under some of the worst conditions in the most inhospitable places in the world. I’ve helped keep an actual human child alive for over ten years and not lost or seriously mangled her once. I can do this. I can manage my feelings for Felicity Chen.

I open the door and immediately know I’m fooling myself. She’s beautiful—she’s always beautiful—but I register that the world is divided into people who know what it’s like to make love to Fizzy Chen, and people who don’t. I’m now one of the lucky, broken ones. I know how her skin tastes and what it’s like to kiss her until she melts. I know her sounds and the way her eyes drift closed right before she comes. I don’t know how to go about the rest of my life pretending I don’t want her with a force that rivals the pull of the tides.

Last night we fixed our clothes and she walked me to her door. We stood facing each other, just like this. Her lips were swollen, her cheeks still flushed from exertion. I leaned forward and what was supposed to be a simple goodbye peck melted into something warm and greedy. Time tipped sideways. I immediately wanted her again, right there against the wall or maybe kneeling over her on the couch, her legs wrapped tight around my waist. I hadn’t left yet and we’d already made a mess of things, what did it matter?

But it does matter. There’s no room in my life—personally, or professionally—for a fling. And Fizzy has never indicated that this is anything more than that. Hell, I wouldn’t even be involved in this show if Blaine hadn’t forced me, and he couldn’t have forced me if I didn’t absolutely need this job. Having feelings for Fizzy doesn’t change any of that.

With my hand cradling her jaw, I’d dragged my lips up her neck,placed a kiss to her cheek. I’d straightened to meet her eyes and saw the same want and confusion reflected back at me. Neither of us knew what to say, so we hadn’t said anything. Instead, I’d walked out to my car knowing that if I didn’t leave right then, I wouldn’t leave at all.

“Hi,” I say now, taking a step back and motioning for her to come inside.

“Hi.” Her hair is in a sleek ponytail, her cropped pants and sweater both black but feet framed in bright orange heels that bring her a few inches closer to eye level. She’s wearing a slash of dark eyeliner, her lips a screeching, house-on-fire red. I want to see that color smeared all over my skin.

I’m glad we’re alone because the air pulses with shimmering want.

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