The Plus One Pact Read Online Crystal Kaswell

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He smiles. "How Doctor Vaughn Got Her Groove Back? Yes. Of course. As long as I come across as a skilled lover."

I stand and shake. It's a joke, I think, but it feels real. Honest. Better. I settle into my seat with a lightness in my shoulders. I'm not a total liar. Only a partial one. "Is there something you want to tell me?" It sounds like a cliche 'trap' sort of question. One a parent offers a child they know misbehaved. But I don't mean it that way. I don't have anything in mind, really.

He looks me in the eyes and says the last thing I expect. "I like you."

My cheeks flush. My chest too. "You like me?"

"I do." He nods. "I can't remember the last time I liked a woman, that I even considered it. I don't expect it to go anywhere. I don't expect anything from you. But I want you to know. Because I do. And, well, I want you to know." He smiles in this way that's impossibly shy and confident at once. "I like that look. Like it means you like me too."

Am I really smiling that wide? Somehow, I don’t feel about it. "I do. And I don't expect anything, either." But that does bring me to another question. Two actually. "Would you ever expect anything, in the future?"

"In general, or with you?"

"In general," I say.

"I don't know. I haven't considered it in a long time. Most women aren't okay with my line of work. I don't blame them. I wouldn't be okay with it easier. But it's still my job."

"Would you quit?" I ask.

"For the right woman, you mean?" he asks.

For me. One day. I want to ask, but that's crazy, isn't it? We're here pretending we're in a relationship. Not building something real. "Is it something you think about?"

"Who doesn't?" He laughs. "I love my job, most of the time, but some of my clients… but then I think about the look on a woman's face after I bring her to orgasm for the first time in years and I don't know. How could I give that up?"

"Become a sex therapist."

"Work the brain instead. No. I don't have the patience."

"So, your business with your brother… that's not your next full-time job?" I ask.

"It might be," he says. "One day. But not for a while."

“And if you inherit that money from your mom, like she talked about?”

“I’d use it to pay off my mortgage,” he says.

I nod of course as if it doesn't mean anything to me. Like I’m not asking so, are you going to keep sleeping with people for work. Like he isn’t answering yes, of course, it’s my job.

I stop and really consider what he's saying. Or not saying.

He's planning to stay employed as an escort for a long time.

He's not asking if I could live with that, because this is a fake relationship, but he does like me, and I do like him, so it's a fair question to ask.

Some people wouldn't be okay with my job. Some people wouldn't want their partner talking to people about sex all day.

Everyone draws the line somewhere.

And people do have all sorts of arrangements.

It's better to decide yes, monogamy is right for me, and it means this to me, than to assume it's the only choice, and it only means one thing.

I close my eyes and try to imagine that future. A world where I can fall in love, build a life with someone. It would be nice, having a boyfriend with the sort of income a high-end escort demands. Certainly.

But the thought of him spending the night with clients? Or coming home smelling like other women? Or even smiling, with pride, about his work?

I don't think so.

But for some reason, I don't want to come out and say it yet. I don't want to ask the question would you quit this job for love. We're not there yet.

But I do like him. And he likes me. It means something, that neither of us expected this but we found it anyway.

Maybe that’s enough. Maybe I don’t need more from him. Maybe I can appreciate this for what it is.

Because nothing is forever. Not marriage or diamonds or love. Eventually, we die, the sun goes supernova, the universe implodes.

Everything ends.

So what if this ends a little sooner than the end of my life? I can still enjoy the ride. I’m determined to enjoy the ride.

So, I ask another question. "What's the closest you've come to love?"

Surprise fills his eyes. He was expecting another question. He smiles, happy to answer. "The woman I dated before Sasha pitched the idea," he says. "She was an artist. Beautiful. Funny. And shy the way you are. This outer innocence that hid an inner boldness."

How can he make a story about another woman flatter me? He is skilled. As a professional. Or maybe he's just charming. There's nothing wrong with that.


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