Faking with Benefits : A Friends to Lovers Romance(4)

“I’m not a baby.” I try to wriggle out of his grip.

He just laughs and kisses the top of my head, unlocking his front door and bundling me inside.





The guys’ flat is a larger, more manly version of mine. Instead of one bedroom, there’s three, but they have the same open plan lounge-dining-room-kitchen setup. Whereas my living space is papered in pink and filled with racks of product samples, the guys’ lounge is dark and neat. They have black sofas set up around a glass coffee table, facing a wide-screen telly. Above it, all their awards are lined up on a shelf: the red English Podcast Award plaque; the microphone-shaped Elias Radio Popular Choice Podcast; and my personal favourite, Top Adult Podcast. The trophy is made of hot-pink glass, and is engraved with little lipstick kisses.

Tonight, the room is a little messier than usual. The coffee table is strewn with Three Single Guys posters and markers. One of Zack’s flatmates, Luke, is sitting on the sofa, scribbling his autograph methodically onto each poster.

Zack ruffles my hair and scoots past me to the kitchen, and I shrug off my leather jacket, leaning against the wall to drunkenly admire Luke. Maybe it’s the beer goggles, but he looks especially gorgeous tonight.

Luke is turning forty this year, and he’s the quintessential silver fox. Greying and handsome in a hot professor kind of way. He’s dressed in his usual chinos, thick-rimmed glasses, and a soft-looking navy sweater. I want to lick him. “You look fit,” I drawl.

Luke glances up at me, grey eyes crinkling slightly as he smiles. “Layla. I didn’t know you were coming over tonight, sweetheart.” He caps his pen and looks down at himself. “Ah, thank you. Zack made me buy these trousers.”

“They make his bum look good!” Zack calls from the kitchen.

“Do they, Mr Martins?” I hang my jacket on the coat rack. “How interesting.”

Luke’s face darkens slightly. “I told you not to call me that.”

“Sorry, sir. Force of habit.”

“I didn’t teach you long enough for it to become a damn habit,” he grumbles, and I laugh despite myself.

Luke is my old Year Ten English teacher. When I was sixteen, I went to his class three times a week to learn Shakespeare and read Of Mice and Men. Just like all of the other girls in the school, I had a massive crush on him. I almost had a heart attack when I moved into this apartment building three years ago, and found him standing in the lobby, sifting through his mail. He didn’t recognise me at first — when I told him that he was going to be living opposite one of his old students, he was openly horrified.

Which makes it extra fun to mess with him. I cross the room and slump next to him on the sofa, dumping my bag on the floor. “Good evening, sir?”

He gives me an aggravated look, and I smile, putting my feet up on the coffee table. He glances quickly over my fishnetted legs, then clears his throat. “I had an okay evening,” he says slowly. “I edited a bonus episode of the podcast, then signed posters until my markers ran out of ink.” He picks up a small cream card off the coffee table. “My ex sent me another wedding invite,” he adds drily. “This is the fifth one. I think she’s noticed me screening her calls.”

I reach for it, squinting at the swirly embossed font.

Please join Amy Jones and Rob Tran as we tie the knot!

April 5th, The Laurel Grove





I pull a face. I remember his ex-wife from high school. She was the school’s headmistress at the same time Luke was teaching me. She was a total bitch.

“Ew. Why does she even want you there?” I drop the invite into Luke’s lap and flop my head against the sofa cushions. Everything is spinning. “You should burn it.”

“I was just planning on recycling it, actually.” He frowns at me. “Are you alright? What did Zack do to you?”

“Hm?” I let my eyes fall half-shut. “Nothing.”

“You’re very flushed.” He reaches across and touches my cheek, and I turn into his palm automatically. He smells delicious. Like Earl Grey and old books. I want to nuzzle into him like an armchair.

He pulls his hand away like he’s been burned. “And… floppy. Have you been drinking?”

I stretch and yawn. “Yeah.”

His frown deepens. “Just for fun? Or is something wrong?”

Before I can answer, a door opens in the hallway. “Did I hear that right?” A low voice drawls. “Layla Thompson is drunk?”

I look up. The last occupant of apartment 6B, Joshua Tran, is standing in the doorway of his bedroom, looking at me through narrowed eyes. I glare right back at him, even though tilting my head to look him in the eye hurts my neck.

The guy is tall. At about six-five, he’s taller than Zack, with thick black hair, sharp bone structure, and cool, distant eyes. He’s the quieter one of the group — unlike Zack, he doesn’t burst into rooms and loudly announce his presence; he sneaks in like a black panther and glares around at everyone with judgy eyes.

Which is exactly what he’s doing now.

He leans against the doorway. “Tonight is date night, right?” He says. “Shouldn’t you be getting it on with some rich hedge fund manager? What is it now? Date 120?”

“Keeping track, are you?” I ask, rubbing my eyes. My hands come away black with makeup. Crap. “Gosh, Josh. Anyone would think you want to date me.”