Stuck With You: A Sweet Romantic Comedy

Part 17

Bianca

"I'm sending you home," Timo whispered, his lips a fraction away from my earlobe. "I'll order you an Uber."

Then he stepped back and strode purposely toward the front door where I'd set my bag to take with me to Rob and Camille's for the weekend.

"I don't have a home," I said under my breath.

I didn't think Timo heard me until he said, "You could if you wanted to."

He turned around to look at me, one hand on the handle of my roller bag.

"I didn't mean it like that," he said. "I'm not trying to pressure you."

He might not be trying to pressure me, but I was feeling that way, none-the-less.

"How about this?" Timo said, releasing the bag and coming to stand toe to toe with me in the kitchen. "We'll make it a business arrangement."

"A business arrangement? You'll pay me to date you? I think that's illegal in all 50 states, not to mention—"

"I didn't mean that, either," said Timo, turning a little red. "I just meant we could put terms and a time limit on it."

I was frustrated, both with Timo and with myself. My frustration was threatening to boil over into anger.

"What exactly do you mean?" I said.

Three minutes earlier, I'd wanted to kiss him. Now, if given a choice between kissing Timo and kicking him, it would have been a toss-up. Not that I actually kick people, you understand, but I'd have been tempted.

"You like certainty and clearly defined parameters," Timo said. "That's the only reason I suggested putting anything in writing."

That was true. I did like certainty and clearly-defined parameters, and love, by definition, was none of those things.

"I just explained that I'm terrified of commitment," I said, "and you want me to sign a contract? Isn't that what a marriage is: a contract to love someone until you die?"

"I don't think it's the commitment part you're so afraid of. I think it has a lot more to do with your fear of the unknown."

I didn't want to admit that he might be right, so I didn't agree or disagree.

"I'll think about it," I told Timo.

"I'll wait with you downstairs until your ride comes," said Timo. "We can talk terms on Monday."

"Shall we bring our lawyers?"

I thought he was joking. I certainly was—in a gallows humor kind of way—but Timo didn't laugh.

"Whatever it takes to get you to give me a chance," said Timo.

I didn't want a contract; I wanted a reset on our whole relationship if you could call it that. I wanted to rewind to that evening in the restaurant when Timo and I had first met. I wanted to not have gone over to Timo's table and made a fool of myself.

Actually, I'd have been willing to rewind to the ride home after Liberty and Adam's dinner party. That's where things had gone really wrong.

Unfortunately, there's no reset button on life.

When I got to Rob and Camille's, everyone was already asleep. Camille stuck her head out of the master suite and gave me a bleary-eyed greeting as I hauled my bag and my fat folder of invoices into Timo's room. I'd planned on going over the paperwork I'd gotten from billing and the warehouse before going to sleep, but after my tense exchange with Timo, I didn't have the strength left to deal with whatever I might find when I tried to reconcile the two sets of paperwork.

I flipped on the light and looked around the bedroom. I'd never actually been in Timo's room at Rob and Camille's, at least not since it had ceased to be the guest suite.

Unlike the penthouse, where Timo had cleared away his personal items to make room for mine, this room was full of his belongings. It even smelled like him.

I crawled into bed, closed my eyes, and tried not to imagine what it would be like to sleep nestled in Timo's arms with my head on his chest.

I was awakened from a thoroughly blush-inducing dream staring Timo and yours truly when Morty and Marta divebombed the bed. I knew for a fact that Timo did not allow them in his room. Marta, always a stickler for protocol, had informed me that NO ONE was allowed in Mr. Timo's room, not even Mommy and Daddy. Apparently, when it was my room, she was under no such compunction to adhere to the rules.

"Mommy made pancakes," Marta said. "She says to come down right now."

When it came to pancakes, I was like a moth to a flame. The kids finished theirs in about eight minutes, Rob excused himself to his home office, and it was just me, Camille, and a second helping of pancakes with strawberry sauce and whipped cream.

"So?" said Camille.

She was looking awfully pleased with herself, and I suddenly realized that the pancakes were a ruse. Camille had me cornered. She knew me too well. No matter how nosey Camille decided to get, I wasn't likely to leave an unfinished plate of pancakes and retreat for cover.

"So what?" I said.

"So, are you and Timo together, yet?"

"Yet?"

"You understood the question."

"No, we are not 'together.' And there is no 'yet.'"

"Is this about Conner?" Camille asked.

Conner was my high school boyfriend/fiancé/man who left me at the altar. Whenever I run into complications in my personal life, everyone likes to blame it on Conner. The truth is, I barely think about Conner, ever. I'm not saying that being left at the altar at nineteen doesn't figure somewhere into my antipathy to marriage, but my near and dear give him way too much credit for unduly influencing my life choices.

"This has nothing to do with Conner," I said.

"Is this about Chad, then?"

"No. Why does it have to be about anybody but me? I don't want to talk about this, OK?"

Camille heaved a deep sigh and reached for my plate.

"You know, you have terrible taste in men."

"I'm not done with that!" I said, keeping a firm grip on my plate. "And what's wrong with my taste in men?"

"You always go for scumbags," Camille insisted, relinquishing the plate so quickly that I had to stop it from sliding off into my lap.