She blinks for a second then smiles. “Because he couldn’t find a date!” Then she laughs. “Get it? Date? Like the fruit?”

 “Got it.” I incline my head in acknowledgment. “Speaking of dates, do you have any this week? Anything I can prep you for?” How the fuck am I supposed to deal with her dating? What if she finds some guy who likes these ridiculous second-grade jokes and she wants to fuck him? That’s not going to work for me.

 “No.” She shakes her head, rolling her eyes at herself. “Last week was an anomaly to be honest. I don’t get out that much.” I wait for her to laugh or crack a smile, but she picks up a piece of bread and rips off a tiny chunk instead. “There was this one guy I’ve been talking to for weeks online.”

 Well, that’s fucking great.

 “But then he asked me to get a tattoo. Which is weird, right?” She looks to me for confirmation but keeps speaking without giving me a chance to reply. “I never even met him. But he asked me to get a tattoo. Of his name. On my freaking body.”

 Fuck, no.

 “He said to put it on my hip or somewhere sexy.” She leans in closer and lowers her voice. “He said this way he would know that I’m not sleeping with anyone else.”

 I eye her for a moment. “You’re making that up.”

 “I’m not.” She shakes her head back and forth. “That is a true story.” She punctuates her sentence with a fingertip in the air. “Anyway, I should spend some time studying those books before I go on another date.” She’s serious.

 “Chloe,” I groan. “Throw those ridiculous books away. You need real-life practice, not a book.”

 She pauses, having just stuffed the piece of bread into her mouth, and stares at me. I can practically hear her mind whirring, wondering if I’m referring to real-life sex practice or real-life dating practice. I’m definitely referring to sex.

 “Um, yeah,” she mumbles noncommittally and continues chewing.

 The waitress arrives with our orders and Chloe digs in, emitting a happy little sigh as a cheesy noodle hits her tongue. She takes another bite and moans. She wiggles in her chair but I don’t think it’s for the same reason that I’ve just had to adjust my goddamned cock.

 “See! You’re jealous, aren’t you?” she asks, eyes wide when she notices me staring at her. I don’t think gluttony is the correct deadly sin that I’m feeling, but I attempt to look chagrined as I wave my fork at her plate.

 “You might have out-ordered me with the macaroni and cheese, Chloe.”

 She tilts her head slightly to the side and offers me a funny half smile before she nods and pushes her plate towards me. “It’s okay, we can share.”

 Later when the bill arrives Chloe digs out her wallet.

 “I’ve got it,” I tell her. Why the fuck is she trying to pay?

 “But it’s not a date. Why should you pay?”

 “I’ve got it,” I repeat. “You can owe me another favor,” I add when she looks like she’s going to object again. “If that makes you feel better.”

 She wrinkles her nose at me. “I feel like you’re stacking up all the favors. How do I get a favor?”

 “Would you like a favor?” Please let it be dirty.

 She thinks about it and shrugs.

 On the drive home she tells me about her class. About the kids, the school, her classroom, her upcoming lesson plans. We talk a little bit more about what it was like for me to grow up as the son of a US Senator. I find myself talking to her about the shock of finding out about Sophie—finding out that I had a half-sister who was obviously born while our father was married to my mother. About realizing that my mother knew about Sophie’s existence all along. I tell her that looking back from an adult perspective I’ve realized how much the tension between my parents contributed to me choosing boarding school. Because while they’d always put on a happy facade—both in public and at home—there was always something that felt off.

 When we arrive at her apartment I find a place to park on the street before she has a chance to question it and grab her bags from the back of the car. She could easily carry these items herself, so I keep her talking and walk her inside. When we reach her unit she looks at the bags in my hands and frowns before turning to unlock the door.

 “I could have carried that myself. You didn’t need to park.”

 I walk inside of her apartment and place the bags on her tiny kitchen table, laying the garment bag over one of the chairs. When I turn she’s still at the door two feet away removing her key from the lock. I have her pressed against the open door and my lips on hers before she even looks up. She freezes. Four long seconds. Maybe five. My fingers are behind her neck, my thumb on her cheek angling her mouth where I want it. And during those several seconds I berate myself for pushing her. Then I softly bite her bottom lip and she starts to breathe again, a tiny sigh that seems to move through her entire body because she relaxes and kisses me back. I move closer, closing the inch-wide gap between our bodies, the soft curves of her breasts pressing into my chest as I move my other hand to her hair.

 When I finally break the kiss and step back, she blinks, eyes dazed. Her bewilderment is quickly replaced with confusion and then a flicker of apprehension flashes through her eyes. I’ve pushed this too soon.

 “Well, I’m gonna go,” she says, jingling the keys in her hand.

 “We’re in your apartment,” I point out, trying not to laugh.

 “Oh, yeah,” she agrees, glancing around.

 “That’s what I’d have done if this was a date,” I say, giving her an out. I keep my eyes on hers and rub my thumb across my bottom lip, remembering the feel of her mouth on mine. “And it wasn’t weird, right? You’re worried about nothing.” The creases around her eyes ease and she relaxes.

  “Right.” She nods. “Well, you’re good at it,” she adds with a shake of her head and a laugh.

  “I’ll call you with the details for next weekend,” I tell her. And then I get the hell out.

Eleven