Page 10 of Oliver
"Handholding duration not to exceed forty-five minutes per day,” Zahra read out loud. “Casual touches are limited to arms, shoulders, and back. Kisses only when specifically required for photography or family observation, with a maximum duration of five seconds." She paused. "This is very specific."
"It's necessary," I said. "Without clear parameters, situations can become ambiguous. Ambiguity leads to misunderstandings."
Like thinking someone cares about you when they're actually just using you.The bitter thought rose unbidden, and I pushed it aside. Though there was certain poetic justice in it. Once upon a time, she'd used me and walked away when it no longer suited her, standing by while I was bullied by Ryan and his cronies.
Oh, how the tables had turned.
Now I was the user and the one who would walk away.
"Oliver?" Zahra's voice pulled me back to the present. "Are you alright?"
"Fine," I said, straightening my posture. "Any questions about this section?"
She hesitated, then pointed to a clause. "Can we adjust the time limits on handholding? Forty-five minutes seems arbitrary."
"It's not arbitrary. It's based on the average social gathering duration, allowing for natural moments of separation without appearing staged."
A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "You've put a lot of thought into this."
I didn't return the smile. "It's my job to consider these details."
She paused, her eyes fixed on me as she mulled over my words.
“This level of thoroughness,” she started. Slowly. Carefully. “You’re clearly experienced.”
“I’ve been at Rent-A-Date for seven years.” I placed my papers on the table and tidied them into a neat stack. “I’ve had my fair share of fake boyfriend bookings.”
Zahra looked away. She was nodding, but there seemed to be hesitation in the motion.
“My experience was part of my appeal, no?”
“It was—is!” Red stained Zahra’s cheeks, her high cheekbones highlighted by the color. “I need a coffee break.”
“Dash of milk, one sugar,” I requested, though she didn’t ask.
Zahra nodded, and I watched her walk away, telling myself that noticing her firm ass hugged by that damn blue skirt was meaningless, despite the rush of blood down south.
While my little brain was having a moment of distraction, the rest of me was worried that she’d change her mind. I needed the money, and I needed the excuse to go back to Norman even more. But if Zahra was already hesitating, already shaken bythings that shouldn’t move her if this was only business, maybe pressing forward was a mistake.
By the time Zahra was back with our coffees, seeming composed, I’d gotten myself under control and established that her feelings were meaningless. She knew the score, she’d sign off on the rules. If she breaks them, that’s on her, not me.
“Shall we?” I indicated the contract, and Zahra nodded.
We moved through the rest of the contract methodically, section by section. Her professional demeanor cracked only once, when discussing how to handle questions about our reconciliation story.
"So, if anyone asks how we reconnected?" she began.
"We say we ran into each other at a coffee shop, and things developed from there. Simple, plausible, and requires minimal elaboration."
Something flashed in her eyes. It could have been guilt, genuine remorse, maybe even pain. Whichever emotion Zahra was trying to hide, it had me adjusting my grip on my pen. I didn't need her pity or her regret. Not anymore.
The final page listed my conditions for accepting the contract. One of them made Zahra pause.
"No involvement beyond what’s required for upholding the act," she read, then looked up, studying me with those piercing green eyes. I could see the questions forming, the curiosity about what I might be hiding. But in the end, she simply nodded and continued to scan the page.
Good. I couldn't risk her discovering why I really needed this money, or why returning to Norman was both a nightmare and an opportunity I couldn't pass up. The county records office—two blocks from her cousin's church. My grandparents' house, the one my parents stole out from under Emmet and me, sat right on the route to the wedding venue.
Escape velocity.That's what I'd achieved when I left Norman—the minimum speed needed to break free from gravitational pull. I'd escaped, built a new life, and now I was willingly re-entering that field of influence. The physics of it seemed almost poetic in its cruelty.
