Page 13 of Faking the Heat

I make a sound that is not a word. It’s more like the death spiral of a modem from the 90s. My brain, loyal only to the instinct of self-preservation, immediately spins my entire body, one-eighty, slamming me into the doorframe on the way out.

My face is currently the temperature of a dying star. I scramble back into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind me with a click that sounds like a gunshot in the quiet loft.

“Sterling!” I yell at the closed wood, my back pressed against the wall, my heart trying to exit through my throat. “The note! You left a note! It said you were at the gym! I thought… I was just looking for sweatpants! “

There is a full thirty seconds of silence.

Then, because my tongue has never met a grave it didn’t want to dig, I start apologizing through the door.

“I am so sorry. Your note said gym, and I assumed you were still there, obviously I shouldn’t have. Oh my God. but the note didn’t specify a time, and I just needed pants and I swear I didn’t see anything except, you know, the usual number of body parts,”

I stop talking because the more I explain, the more I'm picturing the water beads trailing down the line of his hip. I squeeze my eyes shut, but the image is burned into my retinas like a flashbulb. It wasn't just a body. It was his body. I flatten myself against the wall, hoping for spontaneous evaporation.

From inside the room, I hear the distinct, unhurried sound of someone getting dressed. No panic. No response to my apology barrage. Just the steady, measured pace of a man who has navigated much worse and is not about to let a little nudity throw off his morning routine.

Eventually, the door opens. Sterling stands there, fully dressed in a navy t-shirt and dark jeans, looking absolutely, infuriatingly composed. He takes one look at me, still welded to the wall, and gives me the world’s smallest smirk.

“You okay there, Sparkles?”

“I’m good,” I say, which is a lie, because my body is still redlining and my dignity is somewhere in the laundry chute. “Sorry again. I didn’t mean to, I just needed- “

“Pants,” he says handing me a pair of navy joggers. “Since you're so desperate to be productive.”

“I'm sorry. I swear I'm not normally a walking privacy violation. I just... the coffee situation was dire, and I thought the coast was clear. “

“Relax.” He says leaning in the door frame, arms crossed. “You've seen me in a swimsuit before, Mandy,” The corner of his mouth twitches, a small, devastating dent in his composure. “Though I appreciate the dedication to the apology. It was very fragmented. Very dramatic. “

“A swimsuit is not the same Sterling Hayes, and you know it,” I mutter, clutching the sweatpants to my chest. They smell like him. Of course they do. “I'm going to go change. And then we are going to Target. And we are never, ever going to mention the last sixty seconds ever again. That's Rule Seven. I'm adding it. “

“Rule Seven: Mandy can't handle the merchandise,” He laughs and steps past me into the hallway, heading toward the kitchen “Got it. Get dressed. I'll be in the truck.”

Chapter six

Rule Seven

Mandy

The store stretches before me in rows of humming fluorescent tubes, each casting a clinical glow over floors freshly buffed to a mirror sheen. It’s so ordinary it almost feels sacred. I snag a cherry-red cart, the wheels squeaking once, and brace my fingers on the handle. My Too-Big sneakers, Sterling’s “lost-and-found special”, slosh around my heels, like I’m wading through an inch of water. The gray sweatpants are cuffed to the knee, exposing striped socks and calves that tremble with every step. Perfect reflection of my insides.

Sterling falls into step behind me, shoulders squared, hands jammed in the pockets of his denim jacket. He never offers to wrest the cart from me, and I’m grateful for something to cling to as we pass the Starbucks kiosk with its espresso hiss and the home-decor aisles where glass vases catch the light in impossible rainbows. He hovers at arm’s length, close enough to catch the cart if I let go of it.

We start with the essentials: three-packs of underwear, ankle socks the color of oatmeal, plain white tees. I tick them off on a mental clipboard, clinical and distant, blanking out the curious glances of other shoppers. To them, we look like a suburban couple tackling errands. My pulse pounds at the thought.

“What about this?” Sterling holds up a neon-pink romper trimmed with ruffles and palm-tree appliqués, like something a Florida influencer would pair with a margarita. “It says, ‘Rough week, but still a CEO in stilettos.’”

I snatch it from his hand, the fabric almost fluorescent under the store lights. “It screams ‘I’ve snapped and I’m starting a cult.’” I hang it back on the rack. “Try harder, Captain Save-a-Hoe.”

“Ouch.” He clutches his chest, mock-dramatic. “I’m diversifying your wardrobe. You can’t live in my sweatpants forever, Sparkles.” He winks, casual as breathing.

The tension from this morning hasn’t gone anywhere, just packed itself into the space between us like a static charge. Every time our arms brush as we reach for a hanger, I feel a thrill that has nothing to do with cotton blends.

In the knitwear section, I hover over a beige cardigan—undeniably safe, chalky, forgettable. It whispers I’m together. I’m Fine. I didn’t witness my roommate’s junk on display an hour ago.

“No,” Sterling says from just behind me. His voice is low and unhurried, the one he used on me on the curb the night of the fire. He reaches past, his arm a warm weight in my periphery, and pulls down a forest-green sweater. The yarn has that post-rain moss glow, soft and almost luminescent. “This one.”

I lift it up, draping it against my chest. The color is bold on a rack of taupes and grays. “Green? I don’t do green.”

He tucks a stray curl behind my ear without quite touching me. “It matches your eyes.” His tone is steady, no teasing. “Remember that gallery opening last spring? You wore that black dress with the emerald trim. You looked… like you.”