Page 57 of The Plus One Pact

He's there, fast, working through his orgasm, groaning into my neck as he comes.

When he's finished, he untangles our bodies, and takes care of the condom.

I take my turn in the bathroom then I climb into bed with him. I lie there for a long time. Because it feels good, to feel my skin against his.

Because this is right.

Even if the other parts are fake.

This is very, very real.

Sure, it will be hard to pretend in front of his family, but it will feel so good to come back to this every time.

After a little cuddling, we order dinner and go through another round of getting through backstory questions.

We don't invite Sasha back to test us. We don't plan another practice session.

We go straight to the action.

The next week, it’s the same.

The following Sunday, he picks me up in his sports car, and we drive to his mom’s place in the hills.

A big, beautiful house where we're spending a week.

A week of deception.

No problem.

Chapter Thirteen

Romeo

Mom answers the door with the pride and confidence of a woman six feet tall. Despite her slim, five-foot two frame, she constantly wears long dresses. Today, it's an orange maxi and chunky wedges.

Unlike many Europeans, she doesn't believe in concepts like "enough" or "minimalism." She isn't one of those women who adopts a wardrobe of neutrals or dons black to stay chic. She prefers colors as loud and bold as her personality.

"Come in, come in," Mom urges. "It's cold outside."

It's a May evening in Southern California. Cold is a gross overstatement. But Mom isn't about to let something as silly as the temperature overshadow her style. If this dress doesn't look good with one of her wrap sweaters or a blazer, well, then sacrifices must be made—

"Mama, let me get you a coat," I suggest, despite the futility.

She waves me away. "It's warm in here." She greets me with a double-cheek kiss then extends a hand to Ivy. "You must be Doctor Vaughn."

"Call me Ivy, please."

"And me, Amara." She shakes then pulls Ivy into a hug. "This is the greeting you Americans prefer, isn't it?"

"Mama, you've lived here thirty years," I say. "And you know how Dad would hate to hear you call the United States America."

She waves me away again. That was one of their time-honored fights. Dad, as a proud Latin American man, always pointed out that he, too, was American. Mexico is part of North America. And all of South America is America too. After all, it’s not called South Not-America.

Mom said it was one of their first conversations.

I'm not sure how much he believed it and how much he enjoyed needling her. There certainly are Latin Americans with his position. But Dad was never a hot-blooded sort of guy. He was more steady. Like Daniel.

Mom looks at Ivy carefully, assessing her monochrome separates—magenta and cranberry this time—with approval in her eyes. She looks to me with a smile I haven't seen in a long time. A good job sort of smile.