She massages her neck, a light touch that draws my eye to her collarbones and shoulders. I want to rest my head in that space and fall asleep there. Fuck. Maybe you don’t got this, Dean.

“I’m fine,” she says. “Are you going to take a shower now?”

I swallow and nod. It’s the best I can do.

“Then I think I’ll go out to your kitchen and get my bearings. You won’t be around during the day to steer me in the right direction when I get lost.”

“Good point.”

She places her phone in its charging dock and slips out of the room.

After showering, I find Solange sitting in the armchair in the corner of my room, a paperback in her lap. She sits up and nibbles on her lip. Damn, I hate this air of unease between us.

“I’m happy to take the floor,” I say, pointing at the bed. “But there’s plenty of space for us both, and I changed the sheets this morning. Whatever you want. Really. What matters to me most is that you feel comfortable.”

We stare at each other for several beats, then Solange slips under the comforter without a word. I climb in too.

“You own fitted sheets. And a headboard. Amazing.” She buries her face in my pillow and takes a deep breath. After a few seconds, she lifts her head. “And you use fabric softener?”

“Bingo. Downy lavender and vanilla bean. Max once accused me of giving him bedding that smelled like a woman’s perfume. I was so insulted.”

She flops onto her back. “An unsophisticated nose, he has.”

“Right? He’s uncouth as hell.”

We’re lying side by side, both of us staring up at the ceiling. It’s an unexpected end to our evening, but when I’m spending time with Solange, unexpected is my new normal.

“What a fiasco, huh?” she says.

That’s the understatement of the decade. “There’s never a dull moment when I’m with you. Must be a day ending in Y.”

She laughs. “Cute.”

“So tell me why we’re doing this.”

“This?”

“Faking a relationship for your relatives.”

She turns on her side, and I do the same.

This is intimate as hell, and yet it feels right. We’re not strangers. Not anymore. I’ve shared details about my life with her that only a few others know. If she asked, I answered. Because I thought it had some bearing on what we needed to accomplish. Now I realize Solange knows more about me than most people in my life do.

And, sure, she’s shared pieces of herself too. And I can order her a cup of coffee just the way she likes it. But I want to know everything. Or as much as she’ll tell me.