Page 18 of Not Safe For Work

“Goodnight, guys. Have fun getting to know each other.” Mitch winks back before he walks out.Shit.

“Sorry, Liv. That’s my bad. I should have told you considering the event on Friday.”

I can’t exactly fault him for this, but I am curious. “You really don’t do ferries? Ever?”

“No boats.” I raise my brows, urging him to explain and he sighs, resignation coating his features. “You hungry?” He swiftly changes the subject.

“A little. You wanna tell me about the boats?”

“Let’s grab dinner,” he says, standing and packing up his laptop. “I’ll tell you all my deepest, darkest secrets.”

CHAPTER SIX

GAVIN

Olivia saysshe doesn’t feel like going out, but to my surprise, she invites me over to her place for dinner.

“I mean, we should both have some basic knowledge of our fake-partner’s apartment, right?” I couldn’t agree more.

Our walk there goes straight through North Beach—San Francisco’s Little Italy—so we stop by a market to grab everything needed for a lazy meat and cheese board. Neither of us know how to cook.

“What kind of wine do you prefer?” she asks, perusing the rows. The way she examines each label makes it seem like she knows what she’s doing, whereas my wine knowledge starts and stops with red versus white.

“You look like a pro. Just grab whatever you like,” I offer.

“It’s all Italian. I’m mostly familiar with French or Californian varietals.” Varietals? She grabs a bottle and inspects it thoroughly. “Hmmm, I think I like Sangiovese. It’s single origin, usually has nice tannins. Does that work?”

“I only know about half the words you just said, Sparkles.” I grab the bottle from her hand and feel a buzz just from the briefest brush of our fingers. I squeeze my hands into fists tostop myself from seeking more contact. “My fake girlfriend is so sophisticated.”

We argue over who’s paying for a few minutes before she reluctantly concedes, and we head to her apartment. It’s kind of surreal to think I’ll finally see where she lives after two years of wondering. Wondering what she does outside of work, what she looks like when she isn’t wearing her typical blazer, pointy shoes, and hair pulled tight in a bun. I’ve thought about it all. What music she listens to; what she watches on tv; if she’s a morning person or a night owl.

“Well, this is me. Sorry it’s a little cluttered,” she announces when we walk inside. Cluttered isn’t exactly the word I’d use. It’s not messy at all. Just a small studio with a lot of décor. To my delight, she immediately kicks off her shoes and lets her hair down, before swapping the blazer for a hoodie that almost matches mine.

Her walls are covered in photography, hundreds of framed photos lining each corner of the apartment. It looks to be mainly shots of the Bay Area; bridges, the Painted ladies, Land’s End. One wall is just vineyards.

“I like all the photos,” I say as I walk through the space, eyeing them in more detail.

She’s grabbing glasses and plates from the kitchen when she responds, “Oh, yeah. Just a hobby I can’t seem to kick.”

“A hobby? Wait.” I squeeze around the love seat to help her in the kitchen. “You took all these?” I gesture to the walls around us.

“Yeah. I know the place looks like a mess, but I really can’t choose which ones to get rid of. I love them all.” She pouts and shrugs her shoulders until they go all the way up to her ears. I wonder if she knows how beautiful she looks right now.

“Why do you have to get rid of any?” I ask.

“I don’thaveto. But anyone who’s ever set foot in my apartment tells me it’s too much. Kind of like my brain.” She mumbles the last part, but I don’t miss it.

“It’s not too much.” I make sure to look at her when I speak, because I can tell there was hurt in her words. I’ve learned a lot about Liv in the last forty-eight hours and I’m realizing that kindness is something she deserves quite a bit more of. I don’t really know how to convey that with my eyes but I’m trying, and the way her mouth softens makes me feel victorious.

“Well, that means you are welcome here anytime.” She grins and hands me one of the glasses she just poured. “Cheers to my very supportive fake boyfriend.”

“Cheers to my very beautiful fake girlfriend.” She blushes as we clink the glasses together and her eyes flutter closed when she tips the glass toward her mouth. To my surprise, she doesn’t take a sip. Especially not a big gulp like I just did. Instead, she tilts the glass to her nose and breathes in deeply. I continue to watch as she swirls the glass, tilts it from one side to the other and then finally brings it to her lips.

They’re painted scarlet today—just a few shades lighter than the wine—and leave a perfect imprint on the glass.

“What was that?” I ask, after she finally swallows a small sip.

“What? Oh, sorry. Habit.” She shrugs again. “The wine’s pretty good. Do you like it?”

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