He pops his head out of the bathroom, eyes wide.

I stare at him. “You’re kidding me.”

“It’s efficient.”

“It’s basically dish soap.”

“And I’m clean enough to eat off.” He grins like he’s proud of the line. “I’ll get your stuff. Do you need anything else?”

Good god, that dimple.

I try not to smile back like a fool. Not at the joke, but at the fact that it seems like he wants me to sleep in here. Still, I have to be certain, because I’m way too good at misreading signals.

“I’m sleeping in here?”

“No, in the hallway. Yes, in here.”

“Sorry, I just didn’t want to assume…” I shake my head at him. “I’ll get my stuff. Let me throw on some clothes in case Margot’s still around and brave enough to come upstairs.”

“Check my phone. She texts when she leaves for the day. Code’s zero-seven-one-nine-nine.” Shane tells me the passcode to his phone like he’s telling me the weather. Keith constantly changed his, always “forgetting” to give it to me, even though he had mine.

“Aren’t you scared I’ll see your sexts?” I try to sound playful, but even to my own ears, my voice is brittle.

He scoffs, missing the catch in my voice. “Funny.”

He ducks back into the bathroom. I tap the code in. He has two notifications, and when I click into his messages, there’s a text from Margot. I don’t scroll through his messages, but I do look at the names on the screen. That’s not snooping. It’s only snooping if I scroll down. All the names are male, except for a Shannon, which could go either way. The first few words of the message are visible beneath the name, making it clear it’s a conversation about work.

Closing the home screen, I call to him, “She’s gone. Be right back.”

“Hurry.”

I do, smiling all the way to my room.

Our shower is surprisingly sweet. Shane washes my hair with my products but insists on lathering me from head to toe in his barbaric bodywash-and-shampoo solution. It smells good, though. Smells like him. He’s fidgety during the shower, and as we dry off, warning me that he “isn’t a cuddler.”

Once we’re wrapped in darkness, tucked beneath his plush duvet, I feel the mattress shift as he turns to me. Unspoken words hang heavy in the air. I want to grab them and give them a voice, make some kind of bold hint, or even come right out and ask, Do you like me as more than prey? Or am I reading this way wrong? but I don’t. Shane wanted the contract so he could avoid emotional entanglement. Addressing what happens tomorrow is on him. Otherwise, I’m being unprofessional.

Shane’s inhale is deep, as if he’s fortifying himself.

“I was doing some reading.”

Unexpected, but okay.

I make an affirming sound.

“And I learned how important aftercare is.” He clears his throat. “I’m sorry I didn’t see its significance earlier, and I’m sorry if my ignorance hurt you.”

Oh.

As far as apologies go, it’s a very nice one. Formal, but he sounds sincere. Still, I’d trade it for answers without thinking twice.

“Thank you. I appreciate that.” I wait to see what he says next, but he doesn’t say anything. I keep waiting. As I’m about to cave and break the silence, I hear a soft noise, so faint I almost miss it.

A snore.

A motherfucking snore.

Seriously?

I’m waiting impatiently for him to collect his thoughts while he’s in dreamland.

Shane twitches violently in his sleep, as if he’s found an error in whatever spreadsheet he’s filling out in his dreams.

Tomorrow morning, then.

He’ll have to say something tomorrow morning.

Another twitch, and then his arm flings over me, landing heavy on the duvet. Maybe I was in the guest room for my own safety. He grunts, a displeased sound.

You thumped me.

I should be the one complaining.

The arm on top of me moves so suddenly I flinch. Before I realize what’s happening, I’m being dragged, pulled across the mattress, the duvet bunching and coming with me. I—and a large portion of the duvet—are trapped in Shane’s arms. A leg—how is his leg even outside the covers?—hooks over mine. I’ve been manhandled into a sloppy bedding burrito. He sighs in his sleep, an unmistakable sound of contentment. While this isn’t the conversation I’d hoped we’d have in bed, his sleep-grabbiness is endearing.

Doesn’t cuddle, my ass.

TWENTY-SEVEN Claire

I wake up alone, naked and tangled in Shane’s sheets. My mouth is dry, and my hair’s a tornado. The bathroom’s dark, the door open. A glance at my phone shows it’s after six. Maybe Shane’s making coffee. Yesterday’s clothing is folded on the foot of the bed; I throw it on. My hand is on the doorknob when I hear a voice I don’t recognize. I freeze, not wanting to chat with anyone in my disheveled state.

It’s a woman’s voice, high and melodic. “What’s that way?” Not Margot, definitely not Gretchen.

I recognize the answering voice. Margot says, “That’s Mr. Underwood’s room. Come on, I’ll show you the downstairs.”

My stomach flips, then knots at the strange woman’s response, her voice faint as they move away. “How big is the property exactly?”

My brain jumps to panic mode, doing frantic math. This woman’s presence plus Shane’s absence equals I’m being replaced.

Don’t overreact.

There must be an explanation for why Margot’s giving a woman a tour of Shane’s house, but I’m too sleep-fogged to figure it out. Opening the bedroom door, I start down the hall. I’ll wash my face, find Shane, and see what’s going on. As I pass the guest room next to mine, my eyes wander. The door is open, and I can see all the way across the space, to where a hot pink duffel bag and black purse sit on the foot of the bed.

What. The. Fuck.

I’m standing in the hall, gaping at the luggage, when my phone vibrates repeatedly in the waistband of my leggings.

Please be Shane about to explain this.

It isn’t, but against my better judgment I read the text anyway.

Cheating Piece of Shit: It was good to see you the other night. I wish we could have talked longer.

Cheating Piece of Shit: I miss you. I’ve been under a lot of stress at work, and I wish I could talk to you about it. I’d love to have you in my life again.

It’s all I can do not to fling the phone into the guest room. The level of audacity it takes to reach out to me for emotional support is staggering. I’m gripping the phone too hard.

For the first time in thirty days, I cave and respond: Talk to Naomi about it.

Then I block his number, like I probably should have done a month ago. The last petty word is mine. I should feel good, but I don’t. Because I’m still staring at some other woman’s luggage. Heat licks my cheeks. Last night’s hope shrivels, dying from embarrassment. No matter how intimate having sex in Shane’s bed was, how close it made me feel to him, he hasn’t come out and said he wants more. I think I’ve been projecting my feelings all over him. There’s no way he’s in the kitchen. He’s left, gone to work because, to him, this is just another day. I’m the one who’s making it weird, who almost started a so what are we? conversation last night.

A haze settles over me. I’m not in Shane’s hallway anymore. I’m in my old bedroom, discovering Keith’s texts to Naomi. Gutted by the realization that I’ve been replaced. Learning that while I was still invested in him, he’d already moved on to someone new. The world shifts, and I’m back in Shane’s hallway, my brain shrieking that Oh my god, it’s happening again. I’m getting replaced. But this time, there’s nobody to blame for the gnawing in my stomach but me. Shane committed to thirty days, and his time’s up. Whatever betrayal is happening here I created in my head by getting attached to someone who literally made me sign a contract that this was not a relationship. Reality hits so hard my knees wobble. Shane may be paying for the hunt, but he’s also paying for it to end cleanly. No muss, no fuss, no standing teary-eyed in the hallway like I am right now.