Page 45 of Personal Foul

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Charity

Sunday morning, I’m up and out of the house and on my way to Dylan’s before Isabelle has done more than wander out and pour herself a cup of coffee. She’s not much of a morning person, so when I chirped out a cheery, “See you later!” on my way out the door, she lifted a hand in acknowledgment and went back to scrolling through videos on her phone.

Which is good. I didn’t want to have to explain where I’m going, because that would mean either lying—which I hate—or telling her I’m going to Dylan’s—which would be uncomfortable because she’d assume it’s so we could spend the day together, when really I’m just going to put on a skimpy maid’s outfit and clean his apartment.

Ugh.

I had no idea pretending to date him would make my life so much worse than I could’ve imagined.

All I’d thought about was how uncomfortable pretending to like him would be—which is bad enough. Especially because some of the time, Iactuallymight like him.

I hadn’t accounted for the sheer torture of seeing my best friend jealous of our relationship.

With a shake of my head, I pull into one of the parking spots near Dylan’s building. I can’t focus on my feelings about lying to Isabelle right now. I need to focus on keeping my temper in check while cleaning Dylan’s place. Since he gave me yesterday off, this is my first time back since spending the night after our date, and I’m more apprehensive than normal.

Is he going to be nicer? More of a dick? The same as normal?

I feel like something changed between us Friday night, but yesterday morning he seemed to be trying to course correct. And then he gave me the day off. So I’m very confused and don’t know what to expect, but if I were a betting person, my money would be on more of a dick.

Which is why I can’t afford to be distracted by anything, not even my sister sending me cute pics of my niece as I’m riding the elevator. I text her that I’ll come by later this afternoon, put my phone on Do Not Disturb, close my eyes, and draw in a deep, centering breath.

When the elevator stops, I open my eyes and step through the doors, shoulders squared, mind clear.

I can do this.

Dylan greets me with his typical grunt and nod. Maybe today won’t be so bad after all. Maybe he’ll just leave me alone like normal. I’ll put on my embarrassing outfit—though the more I wear it, the less I even notice how ridiculous it is. It’s amazing what you can get used to if you have to—clean his apartment, and be on my way.

As usual, I head straight for the bathroom to get changed …

Only to stop short.

My mouth drops open as I scan the tiny room two or three more times to confirm the reality that my uniform, such as it is, is missing.

“Oh my god,” I mutter, my fury rising. More of a dick it is, apparently.

He can’t be serious, can he? Am I overreacting when I assume that since there’s nothing hanging in the bathroom where my uniform should be, that my uniform is now nothing at all? As in, don’t wear anything?

If he thinks that because of one fake date followed by an inadvertent sleepover …

“Dylan!” I call, trying to keep the hysteria out of my voice. Trying, but mostly failing, to stay calm. I have to be taking this wrong, right?Right?!

Turning on my heel, I throw the door open and march out of the bathroom, pulling up short so I don’t plow into his chest.

He stands in front of me, eyebrows raised. “Need something?”

“Yes!” I practically shriek, unable to stop myself from assuming the worst. “Did you forget to put my uniform in the bathroom? Or is there a change to the dress code you forgot to tell me about?” I poke him in the sternum with my finger, then curl it back into my palm so I don’t shake out the hurt. Dammit. Stupid football playing jackass with his stupid muscles that make it so no matter where I poke him, it wouldn’t feel good, never mind that I got him right in the bone. It was supposed to be annoying tohim. Not hurt me.

“What the fuck is your problem?” he grumbles, crossing his arms.

Ha. Maybe my poke in the chest didn’t feel good for him either, since he’s now blocking my ability to repeat the action.

“You’re my problem!” I force a deep breath so I don’t shout in his face and instead pitch my voice in that low, menacing register my mother always used when she was furious with my sister or I when we were kids. “I’m not cleaning your apartment naked.”

He blinks a few times, his face goes totally blank, and his Adam’s apple works as he swallows. Then he shakes his head quickly, more like a dog shaking off water than any kind of denial. “I’m sorry, why would you think that’s expected?”

“Every time I’ve come over, I’ve gone intothatbathroom”—I stab my finger toward the door—“and changed into that ridiculous maid’s outfit to prance around for your amusement and clean your apartment.”

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