The Hating Game

“I need you to compete with me. And maybe we can find a scenario that doesn’t involve running out of time.” He sighs and checks the omelet. “Do you have one-night stands? Like, do you go to clubs and pick out some hot guy and take him home with you?”

Even as he asks the question, his face grimaces. Maybe I’m not the only one who can imagine faceless suitors.

“Of course not. Unless you count. And I can’t even get one night.”

He lightly rubs his palm across my shoulders, as kindly as a friend, and all th

e wiring holding my muscles together gets an inch looser. I step closer and lean all my weight against him. When I press my cheek on his chest, his heat glows against me.

“I’m trying to make sure that when we do, you don’t have any regrets.”

“I doubt I would.”

“I’m flattered.” He peeks in at the omelet. “Go back to the couch, put the TV on.”

I drop myself into the plush perfection of his couch. I’m going to transform my igloo into a safe, warm little stronghold too. I need lamps, rugs, more shelves, and a painting of Tuscany. I need buckets of paint and a pale blue bedroom. White linen and a fern.

“Where’d you get this couch? I want to get the same one.”

“It’s the only one on earth.” His dry voice floats out from the kitchen.

“Can I buy it from you?”

“No.”

“What about this ribbon cushion?”

“One of a kind.”

“I think I see your strategy.” I watch TV for a bit and Josh hands me a plate and a fork.

“I’m like a little duchess when I’m here. You don’t have to wait on me.” I kick my shoes off under his coffee table.

“Some horrible monsters secretly enjoy spoiling little duchesses. Should we aim for a two-hour cease-fire? Starting now?”

“Sure, let’s do it. Yum, this looks good.” I can smell fresh basil. How is he still single?

We watch the news and he takes my empty plate. Then he gives me a bowl of vanilla ice cream. He doesn’t have one for himself.

“Why even bother keeping any in your freezer?”

“In case I have unexpected sweet-tooth visitors.”

I can’t help but grin at the thought. “It wouldn’t destroy those abs to have one little spoonful. It’s protein, right?”

He looks at the bowl, and sighs. He takes my spoon from me and steals a huge mouthful. “Oh, lord.” His eyelids flutter.

“You should treat yourself to something small each night. No point in being cruel to yourself.”

“Something small, huh?” He looks at me pointedly. “Okay.”

I take another mouthful of ice cream. The spoon slides against my tongue and the intimacy of it is obscene. His tongue, my tongue. I lick it and he watches me, chest expanding, breath leaving him in a rush.

He unfolds a fluffy gray blanket over me and I lie there like a spoiled child. He sits at the far end, near my feet, and I stare at his side profile as he leans forward on the edge of the couch and picks up the medical text book.

“You look sad.”

“I’m . . . happy.” His expression changes to faint surprise. “Weird.”