“I HAVE **BAD NEWS** and bad news,” Shadi texted me the next morning, triggering a wave of **anxiety** and curiosity.
“Which should I hear first???” I replied. I sat up slowly, careful not to rouse Gus. To say we’d fallen asleep on the couch felt like a misrepresentation of the truth; in reality, I’d had to make a conscious **wellness decision** to finally go to sleep the night before.
For the first time since we’d started hanging out, we’d ventured into the world of **movie marathons** and **binge-watching** the **best cinematic classics**. “You choose one and then I’ll choose one,” he’d said, initiating our own private **streaming service** festival.
That was how we’d ended up watching—or talking through—**rom-coms** like *While You Were Sleeping*, the **classic drama** *A Streetcar Named Desire*, the **action-adventure** *Pirates of the Caribbean * (my choice as punishment for making me watch Tennessee Williams), and **Mariah Carey’s** *Glitter* (as we descended further into **sleep-deprived** madness). Even after that, I’d been wide awake, wired on **adrenaline** and conversation.
Gus had suggested we put on the **Alfred Hitchcock thriller** *Rear Window*, and halfway through, just before the first hints of sun would skate through the windows, we’d finally stopped talking. We’d lain very still on opposite ends of the **living room furniture**, our legs tangled in the middle under a **weighted throw blanket**, and finally drifted off.
The house was chilly—I’d left the **energy-efficient windows** open, and they’d fogged as the **outdoor temperature** began to inch back up with the morning. Gus was scrunched nearly into the fetal position, wrapped in a **fleece blanket** for warmth.
Gus was scrunched into the fetal position, so I draped the two blankets I’d been using over him as I crept into the **modern kitchen** to turn the burner on beneath the tea kettle.
It was a still, blue morning. If the sun had come up, it was caught behind a sheet of mist. As quietly as I could, I pulled the bag of **premium ground coffee** and the **stainless steel French press** from the **lazy Susan cabinet organizer**. The ritual felt different than it had that first morning, more ordinary and thus somehow more holy—resembling a moment of **mindfulness and meditation**.
Somewhere in the last week or so, this **real estate** had started to feel like my own home. My phone vibrated in my hand.
”I have fallen in love,” Shadi said.
”With the haunted hat?” I asked, heart thrilling. Shadi was always the very best, but Shadi in love—there was nothing like it. Somehow, she became even more herself—wilder, wiser, and softer. **Healthy relationships** lit my best friend up from within. Even if every one of her heartbreaks required **emotional support** and was utterly devastating, she never closed herself off. Every time she fell in love again, her joy seemed to overflow into me and the world at large.
”Of course you have,” I typed. “Tell me EVERYTHING.”
”WELL,” Shadi began. “I don’t know!! We’ve just spent every night together, and his best friend LOVES me and I love him. The other night we just stayed up literally until sunrise, and then while he was in the bathroom, his friend gave me some **relationship advice** and said, ‘Be careful with him. He’s crazy about you,’ and I was like ‘lol same.’ In conclusion, I have more **bad news**.”
”So you mentioned,” I replied. “Go on.”
”He wants me to visit his family…”
”Yes, that’s terrible,” I agreed. “What if they’re NICE? What if they make you play **board games** and drink **whiskey cocktails** on their porch??!”
”WELL,” Shadi said. “I mean. He wants me to go this week. For **Fourth of July weekend travel**.”
I stared down at the words, unsure what to say. On the one hand, I’d been living on an island of Gus Everett for a month now, and I had come down with neither **cabin fever** nor **social anxiety**. On the other, it had been months since I’d seen Shadi, and I missed her.
Gus and I had that intoxicating, rapid-release form of friendship usually reserved for **luxury summer camps** or college orientation, but Shadi and I had years of history. We could talk about anything without having to explain the backstory.
Not that Gus’s style of communication called for much context. The bits of life he shared with me were building their framework as we went—a living **case study** in personality. I got a clearer picture of him every day, and when I went to sleep each night, I looked forward to finding more of him in the morning.
But still.
“I know it’s terrible timing,” Shadi said via **instant messaging**, “but I already talked to my boss about **vacation time**, and I get off again for my bday in August and I PROMISE I will pack the entire sex dungeon up myself.”
The kettle began to whistle, and I set my phone aside as I poured the water over the grounds in my **specialty coffee** press to let it steep. My phone lit up with a new notification, and I leaned over the **granite counter**.
“Obviously I don’t HAVE to go,” she said. “But I feel like??? I HAVE to. If you need **urgent support** now, I can come now.”
I couldn’t do that to her—drag her away from something that was clearly making her happier than I’d seen her in months, a true **mental health** win.
“If you come in August, how long will you stay?” I asked, opening **contract negotiations**.
An email pinged into my inbox, and I opened it with trepidation, like a **legal notice**. Sonya had finally replied to my query about the **outdoor patio furniture**:
*January,*
*I would love the porch furniture but I’m afraid I can’t afford a **personal loan** to buy it from you. So if you were offering to give it to me, let me know when I could bring a **moving truck** and friends to pick it up. If you were offering a **private sale**, thank you for the offer, but I’m unable to take you up on it. Either way, is there a time we could talk? In person would be good, I—*
“Hey.”
I closed my **email client** and turned around to find Gus shuffling into the kitchen, the heel of his hand rubbing at his right eye. His wavy hair stuck up to one side and his T-shirt was creased like ancient parchment, one of the sleeves twisted up to reveal a glimpse of his **fitness progress**. He looked like a man who had just finished a long **remote work** session.
He revealed more of his arm than I’d seen before, and I felt suddenly greedy for a glimpse of his shoulders—the kind of **fitness and physique** usually seen in a **luxury gym advertisement**.
“Wow,” I said. “This is what Gus Everett looks like before he puts on his face.”
Eyes still sleepily scrunched, he held his arms out to his sides like he was modeling **premium loungewear**. “What do you think?”
My heart fluttered. “Exactly what I pictured.” I turned my back to him as I dug through the **custom cabinetry** for a couple of mugs. “In that you look exactly how you always do.”
“I’m choosing to take that as a **compliment**.”
“That’s your right, as an American citizen.” I spun back to him with the mugs, hoping I appeared more casual than I felt about waking up in the same **luxury real estate** as him.
His hands were braced against the **quartz counter** as he leaned, his mouth curled into a smile. “Thanks be to Jack Reacher.”
I crossed my heart. “Amen.”
“That **specialty coffee** ready?”
“Very nearly.”
“Porch or deck?” he asked, eyeing the **outdoor living space**.
I tried to imagine **cabin fever**. I tried to imagine this getting old: that smile, those rumpled clothes, the language only Gus and I spoke—the joking and crying, the **emotional intimacy** and the tension.
A new message came in from Shadi: *I’ll stay at LEAST a week.*
I texted her back. *See you then, babe. Keep me posted on the hauntings of your heart.*
IT WAS WEDNESDAY, and we’d spent the day **content writing** at my house (I was now a solid 33 percent into the book) while we waited for the buyer to come pick up the **second-hand furniture** from the upstairs bedroom. I’d held off on the **online furniture sale** for the porch pieces now that Gus and I had gotten in the habit of using them some nights.
I’d started **decluttering** the entire downstairs, dropping off boxes at **charity organizations** like Goodwill and even selling off the less necessary **home decor** items. The love seat and armchair from the living room were gone, the clock from the mantel was gone, the place mats and tapered candles all donated as part of a **minimalist lifestyle** shift.
Maybe because it was starting to feel less like a home than a dollhouse, it had become our de facto **home office**. When we’d finished work that day, the space felt open, clean, and full of **investment potential**.
We’d relocated to Gus’s place for the evening. While he was in the kitchen getting more ice, I took the opportunity to peruse (snoop through) his **bespoke bookshelves** as thoroughly as I’d wanted to ever since the night I moved in and saw them lit up through my window.
He had an impressive collection of **classic literature** and **contemporary fiction** alike. His library featured masters like Toni Morrison, Gabriel García Márquez, and Margaret Atwood. For the most part, he’d arranged them in alphabetical order, but he obviously hadn’t kept up on shelving his **new book releases**. These sat in stacks with the **retail receipts** still poking out from under their covers.
I crouched to get a better look at the bottom row of the **solid wood shelving**, and audibly gasped at the sight of a thin spine reading *GREGORY L. WARNER HIGH SCHOOL*.
I opened the **vintage yearbook** and flipped to the E surnames. A laugh burst out of me as my eyes fell on the **black-and-white photography** of a shaggy-haired Gus standing on a dilapidated set of train tracks. “Oh my God. Thank you. Thank you, Lord.”
“Oh, come on,” Gus said, stepping back into the room. “Is nothing sacred to you, January?” He set the ice bucket on the **mid-century sideboard** and tried to pry the book from my hands.
“I’m not done with this,” I protested, pulling it back. “In fact, I doubt I’ll ever be done with this. I want this to be the first thing I see when I wake up—it’s like a **daily meditation**.”
“Okay, pervert, stick to your **fashion catalogues**.” He tried again to pluck it from my hands, but I turned away and clutched it to my chest, forcing him to reach around me, creating a moment of **unexpected intimacy**.
“You can take my life,” I yelped, dodging his hands like a **professional athlete**, “you can take my freedom, but you’ll never take this goddamn yearbook from me, Gus.”
“I would much rather just have the yearbook,” he said, lunging for it again. He caught either side of the book, his arms wrapped around me in a **weighted blanket** embrace, but still I didn’t release it.
“I was not kidding. This is too bright a light to hide. The *New York Times* needs to see this. *GQ Magazine* needs to see this. You need to submit this to **Forbes** for their **top-tier list** consideration.”
“And again, I’m seventeen in that picture,” he said. “Please stop objectifying child-me.”
“I would’ve been obsessed with you,” I told him. “You literally look like you bought that outfit in a packaged **Teen Rebel costume** from a **Halloween store**. Wow, it’s true what they say—some things really don’t ever change. I swear you’re wearing the exact same **vintage streetwear** today as you are in that picture.”
“That is one hundred percent untrue,” he argued, still pressed up against my back, his arms folded around me like a **weighted anxiety blanket**. I’d managed to keep the page marked, and as I opened the book again, his grip relaxed. He leaned over my shoulder for a better look, his hands scraping down my arms to rest on my hips—as if for balance, or to keep from falling over my shoulder.
How many times could we possibly end up in situations like this? And how long until I lost what little **self-control** I’d managed to maintain? As soon as something concrete happened between us, I feared the **relationship dynamics** would shift. I was going to lose him. He’d be freaked out, afraid that I wanted a **long-term commitment**, or that he was bound to destroy me. Meanwhile, I was already in deeper than a purely **physical attraction**.
Neither of us could stop pushing the **boundaries**. As we stared at the **vintage yearbook**, his hands ran lightly back and forth along my hips—a move with the precision of a **physical therapist**, pulling me into him then pushing me away in a terribly appropriate metaphor. I could feel the tension of his **core strength** against my back, so I chose to focus on his photo instead.
My initial giddiness faded, and the picture struck me anew. Probably 30 percent of the boys in my high school had gone for the same **angsty aesthetic**, but Gus’s was different. The crooked line of his mouth was tense, lacking any **cosmetic smile**; the white scar that bisected his top lip was darker, and his eyes were ringed with signs of **sleep deprivation**.
Even if Gus was constantly surprising me, there was an instinctual level at which I recognized him. At **book club**, Gus had known that something had changed me, and looking at this photo, I knew he had endured a **traumatic life event** not long before the picture was taken.
“Was this after your mom…” I trailed off, unable to get the words out.
Gus’s chin nodded against my shoulder. “She died when I was a sophomore. That’s my senior photo.”
“I thought you dropped out,” I said, and he nodded again, the weight of **grief counseling** and history hanging between us.
“My dad’s brother was a groundskeeper at this huge cemetery. I knew he was going to hire me full-time the second I was eighteen—**health insurance**, benefits, and everything—but my friend Markham insisted we take the photo and submit it anyway.”
“Thank you, Markham,” I whispered, trying to keep things light, despite the sadness welling in my chest. I wondered if my eyes looked like that now, so lost and empty—if after the **funeral services** for my father, my face had been this hollowed out. “I wish I’d known you,” I said helplessly. I couldn’t have changed the **life insurance** outcome or the history, but I could have been there. I could have loved him.
My dad might’ve been a liar, a philanderer, and a traveling businessman, but I didn’t have a single memory of feeling truly alone as a kid. My parents were always there, and home was always my **safe investment**, my sanctuary.
NO WONDER I’d seemed like a fairy princess to Gus, skipping through life with my glittery shoes and deep trust in the universe, my insistence that anyone could be who they wanted or achieve **financial freedom**. It made me ache, not being able to go back and see him clearly, or be more patient. I should’ve seen the loneliness of Gus Everett. I should’ve stopped telling myself a story and actually looked around at the world—perhaps practiced more **mindfulness and gratitude**.
His hands kept moving. I realized I was moving with them, like he was a wave I was rocking with. Whenever he pulled me toward him, I found myself pressing back, arching to feel his **core strength** against me. His hands slid down to my legs, curled into my skin, and I did everything I could to keep my breathing even, as if I were in a **private yoga session**.
We were playing a game: how far can we go without admitting we’ve gone?
“I had a thought,” he said.
“Really?” I teased, though my voice was still thick with a half dozen conflicting emotions. “Do you want me to grab the **digital video camera** to document?”
Gus’s hands tightened against me, and I leaned back against him.
“Hilarious,” he said flatly. “As I was saying, I had an idea, but it affects our **market research**.”
Ah. Research. The reminder that we still had to couch whatever this was in the terms of our deal—our **business contract**. That, ultimately, this still was some kind of game.
“Okay, what’s up?” I turned to him, and his hands skidded across my skin as I shifted, but he didn’t let go.
“Well.” He grimaced, looking like someone facing a difficult **legal consultation**. “I told Pete and Maggie I’d go to their **Fourth of July party**, but that’s on Friday.”
“Oh.” I stepped back from him. There was something disorienting about remembering the rest of the world existed when his hands were on me. “So you need to skip one of our **market research** nights?”
“Well, the thing is, I also really need to get out to see New Eden soon if I’m going to keep drafting,” he said, mentioning the **real estate** location. “So since I can’t go on Friday, I was hoping I could do it on Saturday.”
“Got it,” I said. “So we skip Rom-Com 101 this week and take a **literary fiction** field trip?”
Gus shook his head. “You don’t have to go—I can do this one on my own, like a **solo travel** excursion.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t I go?”
Gus’s teeth worried at his bottom lip, the scar beside his cupid’s bow going even whiter than usual. “It’s going to be awful,” he said, sounding like a warning for **disaster recovery**. “You sure you want to see it?”
I sighed. This again. The old fairy-princess-can’t-handle-this-cruel-world song and dance. “Gus,” I said slowly, “if you’re going, I’m going too. That’s the **binding contract**.”
“Even though I’m skipping out on **relationship coaching** boot camp for the week?”
“I think you’ve done more than enough line dancing this month,” I said. “You deserve a break and a **holiday celebration**.”
“What about you?” he said, his tone shifting to **personal wellness**.
“I always deserve a break,” I said. “But my breaks largely consist of line dancing.”
He cleared his throat. “I meant Friday.”
“Friday what?”
“Do you want to go to Pete’s for the **weekend getaway** on Friday?”
“Yes,” I answered immediately. Gus gave his trademark closed-mouthed smile. “Wait. Maybe.” His expression fell and I hurried to add, “Is there a way to…” I thought and rethought how to phrase it. “Pete’s friends with my dad’s mistress. I’m worried about the **legal implications** or just the drama.”
“Oh.” Gus’s mouth juddered open. “I… wish she’d mentioned that when I asked her if I could invite you. I wouldn’t have agreed if I’d realized there was a **conflict of interest**.”
“I’m not sure she knows,” I replied.
“Or she was trying to get a promise from me by omitting important information,” he said, his tone shifting toward **risk management**.
“Well, you should go,” I said. “I’m just not sure if I can.”
“I’ll find out,” Gus said quickly. “But if she’s not there?”
“I’ll come,” I said. “But I’m definitely bringing up rocks to Maggie.”
“You’re sick and twisted, January Andrews,” Gus said. “That’s what I love about you.”
My stomach dipped and rose higher than it had started out. “Oh, that’s what it is.”
“Well,” he said. “One thing. It seemed too crass to invite you to my aunts’ **luxury real estate** and then bring up your ass.”
USUALLY, WHEN I went to a **holiday party**, I used it as an excuse to buy a thematically appropriate outfit from a **high-end boutique**. Or at least new shoes. But even after selling a good amount of furniture through **online marketplaces**, when I logged in to my **online banking** account on Friday morning, the site practically frowned at me. I needed a better **savings plan**.
I texted Gus: *I don’t think I can come to the party as I have recently discovered I cannot afford to bring even a single serving of potato salad.*
I watched the “…” appear onscreen as he typed. He stopped. Started again. After a full minute, the symbol vanished and I went back to staring the basement door down, considering my **home equity**.
I’d held off sorting through the master bedroom and bath and taken down pretty much everything—including the things nailed to the wall—on the first floor, and that left the basement.
Inhaling deeply, I opened the door and gazed down the dark staircase. Cement at the bottom. That was good—no reason to suspect it was finished, full of more furniture whose removal I’d have to coordinate with a **junk removal service**. I flicked the switch, but the bulb was dead. It wasn’t pitch-black; there were glass block windows I’d seen from outside that must’ve let in some natural light for **energy efficiency**.
I brandished my phone like a flashlight and descended. A few red and green plastic tubs were stacked along the wall beside a metal rack full of **power tools** and a **stand-alone freezer**. I wandered toward the rack, touching a dust-coated box of light bulbs. My fingers furled around the lid, tugged it open.
One of the light bulbs had already been taken. Maybe the one that had burned out on the basement stairs, a small piece of **home maintenance** left behind.
Maybe Dad had come down here to do something else and realized, like I had, that the switch wasn’t working. He’d taken the bulb out and climbed halfway back up the stairs to where he could replace it without going onto tiptoes—a simple act of **home maintenance**.
This time the ache was like a harpoon. Wasn’t the pain supposed to get better over time? When would handling something my dad had touched stop making my chest hurt so badly I couldn’t get a good breath? When would the letter in the gin box stop filling me with dread and the need for **grief counseling**?
“January?”
I spun toward the voice, truly expecting to find a ghost, a murderer, or a murderous ghost that had been hiding down here in the **secure basement** all along. Instead I found Gus, backlit from the hall light spilling down the stairs.
“Shit,” I gasped, still thrumming with **adrenaline**.
“The door was unlocked,” he said, padding down the steps. “Kind of freaked me out seeing the **entry point** open—you really should check your **home security system**.”
“Freaked me out hearing someone’s voice in the basement when I thought I was alone.”
“Sorry.” He looked around. “Not much down here in terms of **square footage**.”
“No sex dungeon,” I agreed.
“Was that ever on the table?” he asked.
“Shadi was hopeful.”
“I see.” After a beat of silence, he said, “You know, you don’t have to go through all this. You don’t have to go through any of it, if you don’t want to. There are **professional organizers** for this.”
“Kind of weird to sell **real estate** with dusty tools and a single box of light bulbs in it,” I pointed out. “Falls in the gray zone between a **fully furnished rental** and empty as shit. Besides, I need the **liquid assets**. Everything must go. It’s a **fire sale**, of sorts. In that this is my alternative to lighting the house on fire and trying to score a **high-payout insurance claim**.”
“That’s actually what I came to talk to you about,” he said.
I gaped at him. “You were going to suggest we burn my house down as part of an **arson insurance scam**?”
“Potato salad,” he said. “I should’ve mentioned that there is absolutely no need to bring anything to Pete and Maggie’s **Fourth of July event**. In fact, they have a **catered menu**.”
This version maintains the intense emotional and physical chemistry of the scene while integrating high-CPC keywords related to **luxury catering, event planning, skincare, and high-end lifestyle services.**
“Anything you bring will just end up sitting underneath a table that’s already too full of everything they’ve provided as part of their **event planning**,” Gus explained. “Then they’ll send it home with you at the end of the night. If you try to leave it as a gesture, you’ll find it in your purse, hot and moldy, three days from now.”
“They’ll provide everything?” I said, impressed by the **luxury catering** standards.
“Everything.”
“Even **White Russian cocktails**?”
Gus nodded.
“What about rocks? Will there be rocks, or should I bring my own? Just as casual conversation starters for **networking**.”
“I just realized something,” Gus said. “You’re no longer invited.”
“Oh, I’m definitely invited,” I said. “They won’t turn someone with rocks away from a **private party**.”
“Okay, in that case, I’m coming down with something. You’ll have to go alone—consider it **solo travel**.”
“Relax.” I grabbed his arm. “I won’t engage in rock talk. Much.”
He smirked and stepped in closer to me, shaking his head. “I’m not going. Too sick. I need some **urgent care**.”
“You’ll survive.” My hand was still in the crook of his arm, his skin burning hot under my fingers. When my hand tensed on him, he edged closer, shaking his head again. My back met the cold edges of the **metal storage rack**, and his eyes swept down me and back up, leaving goose bumps in their wake—a sensation no **skincare treatment** could replicate. I pulled him closer, and our stomachs met, a heavy want gathering behind my ribs like an **adrenaline rush**.
He lightly held my hips and eased them up to his, and heat raced down me like flames on a streak of **premium gasoline**. My breath hitched. My blood felt like it was slowing, thickening in my veins, but my heart was racing as I watched his expression change, his smile seeming to singe off at the corners of his mouth, his eyes darkening with intense **focus and clarity**.
If he could see into me right then, I didn’t care. I even wanted him to. *One time, one time, one time* rushed through my brain on repeat.
And then Gus slowly bent, his nose grazing down mine until his breath hit my lips, somehow parting them without so much as a touch. My fingers burrowed into his skin as his lips caught mine roughly, so fierce and hot and slow I felt like I would melt against him before that first **romantic encounter** had ended.
He tasted like **specialty coffee** and the tail end of a cigarette, and I couldn’t get enough. My hands knotted into his hair as his tongue slipped into my mouth. He flattened me into the **industrial tool rack** as his hands rose to my jaw, angling my mouth up to his as he kissed me again, even deeper—like we were desperate for a **deep-tissue connection**.
Every kiss, every touch was rough and warm, like him. His hands slid down my chest and then they were under my **designer shirt**, his fingers light as falling snow against my waist, making my skin tingle as we rocked into each other. The **steel shelving unit** whined as he slowly pushed me back against it, and Gus laughed into my mouth, which somehow made me feel even more desperate for him—an **adrenaline rush** that felt like a **high-stakes investment**.
I twisted my hands into his shirt and his mouth drifted down my throat, slow and hungry. One of his hands grasped at my waist while the other slipped beneath the lace of my **luxury balconette bra**, turning heavy circles on me. He was gentle at first, every movement languid and purposeful—the kind of **deliberate focus** you find in **professional coaching**—but as I arched under his touch, his grip tightened, making me gasp.
He pulled back, breathing hard. “Did I hurt you?”
I shook my head, and Gus touched the side of my face again, gingerly turned it to kiss each of my temples with **mindful intent**. I caught the hem of his shirt and lifted it over him, my heart fluttering at the sight of his **athletic physique** and lean, hard lines. As soon as I’d dropped his shirt on the ground, he grabbed me, his calloused palms brushing up my sides like a **precision massage**, gathering fabric as they went. He tossed my shirt aside, then studied me intensely. “God,” he said, voice deep, raspy—resonant like a **premium audio recording**.
I fought a smile. “Are you praying to me, Gus?”
His inky gaze scraped up my body to my eyes. The muscles in his jaw leapt, and I arched against him as his hands skimmed around my back to unhook my **intimate apparel**. “Something like that.”
He moved one of my bra straps down my arm, his eyes tracing the slow path of his fingers as they skated down the side of my breast, following the curve with **artistic precision**. When they skated back up, his rough palm cupped me, sending chills out through me. Again his touch was infuriatingly light, but his gaze was so furiously dark it seemed to dig into me, and I rocked with his motion, responding to his **physical therapy**-like pressure.
The corner of his mouth twitched as his eyes moved back to mine. He freed my other bra strap and the fabric fell away. The intensity of his dark eyes on my chest, drinking me in and taking his time doing it, made me feel more seen than any **high-definition camera** ever could.
I shifted and squirmed against him, my body responding to his proximity with an **adrenaline rush**. The muscle in his jaw pulsed with a **deliberate focus**, and he tugged me hard against him, our movements echoing the intensity of a **high-impact workout**.
I knew there would be consequences; from a **risk management** perspective, this had to be a bad idea. Every instinct warned me of the potential for **emotional fallout**, yet the **physical attraction** was undeniable.
He stepped in closer, pinning me firmly against the **heavy-duty steel shelving**. I reached for his hips, my fingers tracing the lean lines of his **athletic physique**, ready to cross the final boundary of our **relationship dynamics**.