But my new living arrangement with Barrett will be as temporary as our fake relationship, even shorter if the sobs of my landlord through Barrett’s phone are any indication. She’ll have that place in tiptop shape in no time.

I do a double take out the car window. The brownstone is white stucco with black-framed windows and an archway door to match. Plant baskets with tidy green shrubs line all ten windows from which warm yellow light flows.

The windows are like porn. I imagine a decorated Christmas tree filling the large one on the main floor. Yes, it’s June, but a girl can dream.

A black wrought iron gate and railing leading up to the stoop.

This place is quintessential New York City. Or at least the New York City I had envisioned before I found my two-hundred-square-foot budget apartment in East Harlem.

“I’m covered in dirt and sweat. You can’t expect me to meet the governor looking like this.”

Barrett reaches across me to open the door.

“This is where I live.”

“No. That’s not possible.” I shake my head. “Your home is perched on top of a building, overlooking the mere mortals that dare to breathe your same air.” I glance forlornly at the beautiful exterior of the home I imagine Barrett has ruined the inside of. He’s likely outfitted it with some modern concrete and glass décor a la his minimalist office. Turned it into some cold gray box with square lights and chairs that look like they belong in a dentist office. Ugh. “Where are the gargoyles?”

“Now who’s being judgy?” His brows lift and his lips twitch with amusement.

He’s too close again. Close enough I can smell him. And what’s up with Barrett not smelling after playing tennis in the heat? His cologne is faint now, mixed with potent pheromones and an intoxicating musk. He should bottle his scent, call it Sweaty Guy. It would sell millions.

It’s the racquet club all over again only now there’s one thousand nine hundred and ninety-five square feet less surrounding us. His eyes, those lips, that lickable jaw. I need to find something on his face that doesn’t make me want to spontaneously combust when I look at it.

“You have great eyebrows. Do you get them waxed?” I ask.

“Do I look like a man who gets his eyebrows waxed?” He furrows them now, really showing off their range.

“No. You look like a man whose hair is genetically programed to grow in the exact right spot.”

He studies me for a moment.

“Anything else, Chloe?”

“I just really like your eyebrows. They’re probably my favorite thing about you,” I lie. “No one’s ever asked, but I want to be prepared with an answer.”

“Is that what you would say, if asked?”

“It’s not the girlfriend answer I would give.”

“What is the girlfriend answer you would give?”