“Getting laid regularly beats personal space,” I replied wryly. “Any day of the week. It’s science.”

“Does that mean you are giving monogamy a chance while we’re temporarily together?” It was more a taunt than a question.

“Do you want me to?” I countered. I sounded like my mother and sister passive aggressively trying to convince each other to eat the last slice of the pie on Thanksgiving.

“Do you want to?” she answered. My brain keyboard smashed a crass reply. Was she five?

“Sure,” I clipped. “I’ll do temporary monogamy. If you do.”

“If I do?” She grinned at me in my periphery. “Am I known for running around town bed-hopping?”

Good point. It was true that ever since we’d gotten into bed, it felt like I was losing a few IQ points every time I came inside her. It was like she sucked the logic out of me. The Delilah to my Samson, if he were a genius and she were . . . well, a quirky hipster. I took a sip of my coffee.

“Do you think if we ever made a sex tape, it would look weird? You’re so big,” Mad mused.

I nearly sprayed my coffee all over my windshield. “First of all, I would never make a sex tape—or document being affectionate toward another person in any capacity.” I tucked the foam cup into the cup holder. “But let me assure you, we do not look awkward in bed.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I watched us in my bedroom mirror when we were doing it.” Pause. “We looked fucking epic, thankyouverymuch.”

Mad played with her engagement ring, pouting as she processed all this. We were ten minutes from her house. She still didn’t tell me whether I could crash at hers. I got irritated with her again. Maybe it was a good idea to spend some time separately.

“I think I’d like to sleep by myself tonight,” she said finally. “You know, just to make sure the relationship is not too intense and we don’t catch any feelings toward one another.”

“Fine,” I said. I didn’t have the heart to correct her and point out that . . . well, I didn’t have a heart, so catching feelings was not on the menu for me.

“Great.”

I parked in front of her brownstone and helped her with the suitcases. After depositing them in her living room, we kissed on the lips, and I turned around and walked back down to my car.

Stopped at the building’s entrance.

Made a U-turn and went back up, my fist already curled and ready to knock on her door. I raised my hand to knock, but the door flung open just as my knuckles were about to hit the wood. Madison stood there, panting.

I blinked, awaiting directions. Should I kiss her? Give her her space? Berate her for being so goddamn indecisive?

“Ground rules”—she raised her palm in warning—“because I know you don’t have feelings, but I do, and I’m here to protect myself first.”

I jerked my chin up, indicating that I was listening. I stood outside her apartment. She was standing inside. I wanted permission to get in. I’d probably agree to sell entire sections of Black & Co. for a blowie right now.

“One, no more than three sleepovers a week between both apartments. That’s the ratio.”

“Done,” I snapped.

“Two, you take care of Daisy while I’m out of town. It’s not fair for Layla to have to babysit her. You were the one who gifted her to me.”

“You said you always wanted a puppy when we passed an Aussiedoodle on the street,” I pointed out. I’d thought I was doing her a goddamn favor at the time.

She stared at me like I was insane. “I say a lot of things, Chase. I also said I want to get married in an Italian château.”

“And?” I stared at her blankly.

“And of course I’ll get married in my dad’s backyard!” She threw her hands in the air like it was obvious.

“Whatever. I’ll take care of Daisy when you are out of town and will not gift you anything that requires more than water or batteries to survive.” I made a mental note to gift her awful things only. Heating pads and flowery planners and hand creams that smelled like desserts. The cheap shit that made Mad smile. “Anything else?” I spread my arms theatrically.

“Hmm.” She tapped her lower lip. “Oh yeah. No telling anyone at our jobs about us. This thing between us has an expiration date, and I don’t want to look like you’ve dumped me. Twice.”

Mad hadn’t told anyone we’d dated, then or now. I, however, didn’t give a shit who saw me kissing her in the mornings when we came to work together.

“You weren’t dumped by me the first time around either.”

She waved me off. “They’ll just assume.”

She wasn’t wrong. People always assumed the person with the money was the one doing the dumping.

“And one more thing.” She lifted her finger in the air. I did hope it was just the one, because I was starting to think it might be a good idea to have my corporate lawyer present. Mad had a lot of rules for what was possibly going to be a two-week fling, if even that. My stomach churned at the thought of what that meant for Dad.

“Get it over with.” I rolled my eyes.

“When this is done, promise me you will never seek me out or try to prolong this relationship. You said I’m obsessed with weddings and marriage, and it’s not untrue. Those are things I care deeply about, even if it’s not feminist or hipster or Manhattan circa 2020. Promise you will let me go once and for all. Do the decent thing and stop pursuing me when we say goodbye.”

“I promise,” I said, taking a step forward, erasing the space between us. We were mouth to mouth now. Chest to chest. Cock to pussy. “I promise to spare your heart. Now may I please have the rest of you?”

She wrapped her arms around my neck. “After we shower, you may.”

I captured her mouth, kissing her with intent. I kicked my shoes off as I backed her into her apartment. The level of satisfaction and relief I felt at sleeping at her place should have worried me. Luckily, 90 percent of my blood flow was under my belt, so my brain didn’t have much to work with.

“Kismet,” she murmured into my mouth.

“Come again?” I asked. And again and again and again. On my face ideally.

“Layla’s word of the day was kismet on Friday. I just looked at her door.”

I made an indifferent sound to signal that I’d heard her, backed her the rest of the way into her shower, turned the stream on with our clothes still on, and peeled her dress off with my teeth.

Hands down the longest, dirtiest shower I’d ever had.

Two days later, Grant and I were jogging in Central Park. A habit we stuck to from when we were teenagers, since we both lived on the same block and were self-diagnosed with ADHD and needed to let out some energy. Sometimes we’d jog quietly; sometimes we’d talk about school and girls and work and shit (not literal shit, other than that time Grant had gotten vicious food poisoning during a ski vacation in Tahoe, which we’d discussed at length).

We usually topped the full loop, a 6.1-mile daily run, followed by a short strength training session in my building’s gym before starting our workday. Since I’d spent yesterday at Mad’s, only visiting my apartment to grab clean clothes and take a half-hour dump (it was decidedly ungentlemanly to occupy a lady’s studio apartment bathroom just so you could scroll through every single article in the New York Times while you sat on the shitter, I’d been told), we’d skipped a day’s worth of workouts.