Fuck.

I rush to my room. If there’s a world record for speed packing, I’m pretty sure I’m in the running, because I’ve crammed my things in my bag and stripped the sheets from the bed fast enough for it to count as cardio. I hold my breath as I go down the stairs, like if I can keep air in my lungs, I can keep all the little pieces of myself together. Wounds can be licked at home, my humiliation faced and dealt with. Now, I need to get out. Complete the final portion of my contract and leave. I’m at the front door when I hear the click of high heels on the wood floor.

Fuc—

“Claire!” Margot calls out. “This is Sophia. Sophia, Claire. Claire, Sophia.”

Turning, I nod at Margot and Sophia, letting out a croak of a hello. Margot’s looking at me funny, but Sophia smiles, her straight, white teeth looking like a toothpaste commercial. She’s stunning. There’s no way she’s older than twenty-three.

Sophia is lovely, with shoulder-length chestnut hair and a sprinkle of freckles across her nose. In her leggings and teal cropped hoodie, I can picture her as an Instagram influencer or yoga instructor. I can’t see her running through the woods, branches snagging her gorgeous hair, clawing her pretty face. I don’t want to picture Shane fucking her.

“Where are you going?” Margot asks. “You look sick. Are you okay?”

I don’t know why she’s asking where I’m going. Shouldn’t she know? Maybe she thinks I’m off to the next man’s house, that I have a substitute Shane lined up the same way he clearly prepared to replace me with a newer, prettier version.

Just like fucking Keith.

I want to scream. Or sob. Possibly vomit. Anything but what I’m doing, which is smiling at the woman who is going to be fucked by the man I have way too many feelings for.

“No, I’m great.” The lie tastes sour. “Just me this early, without makeup.”

Sophia smiles back at me, nose scrunching. She’s so cute it hurts. “I get it. I’m in the same boat today.”

My laugh sounds as unhinged as I feel. We aren’t in the same boat, not even the same ocean. “Well, you look great.” What am I supposed to say? Do I give her some tidbit of advice?

By the way, Shane loves pulling hair, so leave yours down. It’s impractical but worth it.

Images of Shane behind Sophia, rough fingers tangling in her hair, make me think I’m going to vomit after all. I have to get out of here.

Margot’s expression is quizzical. “You’re just…leaving? While Shane’s at work?”

“Yeah, sorry, I need to go. I’m running late for stuff. And things.” Forcing a smile to cut off my rambling, I give Margot a quick goodbye hug and open the front door. Then I’m free, crossing the front porch for the last time. As I hurry across the gravel driveway to my truck, telling myself it shouldn’t hurt this much does nothing to ease the agony.

This was a gig, just a job.

No matter how many times I think it, it doesn’t feel true.

I know it isn’t a breakup, but it hurts like one, the pain intensified by the fact that I’m the only one hurting. That’s good, though. Having Shane know I read more into our relationship than exists would be mortifying.

The drive home is a blur. It isn’t until I’m back in my empty apartment that I let myself cry. I check my bank balance through tear-filled eyes, and for a moment, a ridiculous part of me hopes the payment won’t have gone through. That I’ll have a reason to contact him, because I—absurdly—already miss him. The money’s there, though, every last cent. More money than I’ve ever had in my account at one time. I shouldn’t still be crying, but I am. Big, pathetic tears that I can’t stop. I know so much better than this, but I did it anyway. Let myself think there was something there when there wasn’t. Even though I know this isn’t the same thing, the wound is close enough to discovering Keith’s affair that the pain starts to blend. The cutting realization that I didn’t matter as much as I thought—or in Shane’s case, hoped—I did. Humiliation pouring over the gash like rubbing alcohol, leaving me breathless and teary-eyed. Except this time, I injured myself, pulled the blade across my own flesh. So now I’m bleeding, and there’s no one to blame but me.

Four hours, another hearty cry, and a shower later, I’m better. Not good, but better. Sydney is at her fiancé’s this weekend. She’d be back in an instant if she knew how emotionally wrecked I feel, but I don’t want her to abandon her plans. I also don’t want to admit that I’m a starry-eyed optimist who entered a sex contract and started thinking the other person wanted a relationship. She won’t judge me, and I’ll tell her eventually, but I need to soak in my hurt feelings solo for a day or two first. Still, wallowing or not, the idea of moping around the apartment all weekend is unappealing.

There’s only one option: I’m going camping. I need to get back in the woods for a few days. Do a hike-in campsite. Let nature soothe me how it always does. Shake off Shane and reset. I’m single and about to pay off my student loans with a decent chunk of change left over. I should be happy. Grateful. I spent thirty days having incredible sex with a man who’s as attractive as he is kind, and I was paid for it. I need to keep perspective. I’m lucky. Lucky, lucky, lucky.

TWENTY-EIGHT Shane

Weaving in and out of traffic, I can’t get home from work fast enough. All day, I’ve been next to useless, my thoughts consumed by the conversation I’m going to have tonight with Claire.

Watching her sleep this morning, I wished I could go back to last night and tell her how I feel. I considered waking her up to talk before I went to work, but she looked so right cuddled beneath my duvet I couldn’t bother her. So a sticky note on the bathroom mirror it was. Notes are nice, romantic, even. Better than rousing her before dawn needlessly. Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself.

The speedometer ticks higher, and for the millionth time, I’m wishing I’d never hired her, that I’d walked up and asked her out for dinner instead of approaching her with a business arrangement. Then I wouldn’t be worried about her thinking I’m pretending to like her to hunt her for free. I wouldn’t worry if she secretly resents me for how insensitive the contract is. I wouldn’t wonder if she feels the same way I do. I’d know.

If she turns down the relationship, fine. But I will propose another thirty days and then another after that. Buy myself time to win her over, because I will win her over. I don’t want her with an expiration date. Ironically, when I hired her, the expiration date was the appeal. But when I thought this was a brilliant idea, I never thought she’d be so…Claire.

My excitement fades when I pull into the drive. For the first time in thirty days, there’s no green pickup sitting crooked in front of the house. I know she sometimes runs errands while I’m at work, but she’s always here when I get home. Of course, that was when the contract was in effect. It makes sense that she wouldn’t accommodate my schedule now.

The house feels too still. “Gretchen?” I call. Gretchen’s here for another week, and there’s a chance Claire mentioned where she was going. Texting Claire within minutes of getting home seems needy.

“Upstairs,” she responds.

I find her in Claire’s room. A chill creeps over me. There’s nothing there. No stack of paperbacks on the nightstand, no sneakers beside the armchair. Gretchen’s remaking the bed with linens that look freshly laundered. The can of bear spray I bought Claire stands alone on the dresser.