Crap. He said all the magic words, and I didn’t even need to coax them out of him. He’s in a bind, and he needs my help. He doesn’t think I owe him this, but he’s asking anyway because he’s desperate. I can’t say no. It’s not in my nature to turn down someone in need—and that’s especially the case when the person has been through a heartrending experience like Dean has. Not to mention, I had a part in everything that went down, even if he agrees that it was for the best. But we need to establish a few ground rules before I commit to this farce.

I slide my hand out from under his; he flinches as if he just remembered we were touching.

“I have several conditions,” I say.

“Okay. Yeah. Name them,” he says, his voice shaky—with relief, maybe?

“Number one, I will not pretend to be someone else. There lies disaster. The only role I’ll be playing is as your girlfriend.”

“And roommate,” he adds.

I shake my head in exasperation. “Yes, that too. But as me. The current me. Not an idealized me. It’s bad enough that I’ll be spending my free nights with a bunch of lawyers. That’s like scheduling a root canal, a Pap smear, and a mammogram all in one day. I’m not adding an extra layer of hell to that by pretending to be Ella 2.0.”

“Who?”

“Your ex-fiancée, Ella. Remember her?”

He thinks about our exchange a bit, and a corner of his mouth lifts. “Yeah, I remember her. And I absolutely agree on that point. That goes for me too. I want to be as up front as possible about everything except the fact that we’re not really dating.”

“Okay, good. Number two, any physical contact beyond a touch here or there, or a hand on the lower back, if any, will be initiated by one of us only if it’s clear the other consents to it.”

He loosens his tie. “Definitely. I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.” Then he stares into his mug as he strokes his jaw.

I take in a deep, calming breath. Perhaps I should make that a rule: He can’t touch his jaw in my presence. Okay, now I’m being weird.

“Should we agree on a safe word, then?” he asks. “Not in the usual sense, but maybe an inside phrase that will let us know it’s okay to kiss a cheek, for example. A face cheek, I mean.”

I drop my head and cackle, then try to compose myself before I speak again. I’m only half successful at the effort, though. “The fact that you felt you had to clarify which cheek you meant is cause alone for me to abandon ship. Let me be absolutely clear: Ass cheeks are off the table.”