When I returned to the room, he was sprawled on the couch in a most un–Beautiful Bastard–like pose, shirtless and with his hand shoved down the front of his boxers. There was something so ordinary about the way he sat, bored, staring at the television. I was grateful for the reminder that this man was, in some ways, just a man. Just another person, moving around the planet, getting his bearings, not spending every second lighting the world’s stage on fire.

And buried within that epiphany that Bennett was just Bennett was a sense of wild longing because there was this chance that he was becoming my Just Bennett, and for a heartbeat, I wanted that more than I think I’d ever wanted anything.

A woman with freakishly shiny hair flipped her head and grinned at us from the television. I collapsed on the couch next to him. “What are we watching?”

“A shampoo commercial,” he answered, pulling his hand out of his shorts to reach for me. I started to tease him about cooties but shut up as soon as he began to massage my fingers. “Clerks is on, though.”

“That’s one of my favorite movies,” I said.

“I know. You were quoting it the first day I met you.”

“Actually, that was Clerks II,” I clarified, and then stopped. “Wait, you remember that?”

“Of course I remember that. You sounded like a frat boy and looked like a f**king model. What man could ever forget that?”

“I would have given anything to know what you were thinking right then.”

“I was thinking, ‘Highly f**kable intern, twelve o’clock. Disengage, soldier. I repeat, disengage.’”

I laughed and leaned against his shoulder. “God, that first meeting was miserable.”

He didn’t say anything but kept running his thumb along my fingers, pressing and soothing. I had never had a hand massage before, and if he’d tried to turn it to o**l s*x, I might have turned him down just to keep him doing what he was doing.

Wow, that’s a total lie. I’d take that mouth between my legs any day of the—

“How do you want it to be, Chloe?” he asked, pulling me out of my internal debate.

“What?”

“When we’re back in Chicago.”

I stared blankly at him, my pulse sending my blood thrumming in heavy bursts through my veins.

“Us,” he clarified, with forced patience. “You and me. Chloe and Bennett. Man and shrew. I realize this isn’t simple for you.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure I don’t want to fight all the time.” I bumped his shoulder playfully. “Although I do sort of like that part.”

Bennett laughed, but it didn’t sound like a completely happy noise. “There’s a lot of space that comes after ‘not fighting all the time.’ Where do you want to be?”

Together. Your girlfriend. Someone who sees the inside of your home and stays there with you sometimes. I started to answer and the words evaporated in my throat.

“I guess that depends on whether it’s realistic to think it can be anything.”

He dropped my hand and scrubbed his face. The movie came back on and we fell into what I think was the most awkward silence in the history of the world.

Finally, he picked my hand up again and kissed my palm. “Okay, baby. I can handle just not fighting all the time.”

I stared at his fingers wrapped around mine. After what felt like an eternity, I managed, “Sorry. This all feels a little new.”

“For me too,” he reminded me.

We fell into silence again as we continued to watch the movie, laughing in the same places and slowly shifting until I was practically lying on top of him. Out of the corner of my eye I glanced at the clock on the wall and mentally calculated the hours we had left in San Diego.

Fourteen.

Fourteen hours left of this perfect reality where I could have him whenever I wanted him, and it didn’t have to be secret, or dirty, using anger as our only form of foreplay.

“What’s your favorite movie?” he asked, rolling me over so he hovered above me. His skin was hot and I wanted to take off my blouse, but I didn’t want him to move even an inch, for even a second.

“I like comedies,” I began. “There’s Clerks, but Tommy Boy, Shaun of the Dead, Hot Fuzz, Clue; things like that. But I would have to say my all-time favorite movie would probably be Rear Window.”

“Because of Jimmy Stewart or Grace Kelly?” he asked, bending to kiss a trail of fire up my neck.

“Both, but probably Grace Kelly.”

“I can see that. You have very Grace Kelly–like tendencies about you.” His hand came up and smoothed a piece of my hair that had come loose from my ponytail. “I hear Grace Kelly had a filthy mouth too,” he added.