Summary

Rory needs fast cash. Matéo needs a fake girlfriend. The rules were simple: no feelings, no mess, no strings. What could possibly go wrong? (Answer: literally everything. Immediately. ) Rent-a-Date: Terms & Conditions Applied is a romcom full of hot messes, soft hearts, and a hero who wasn’t supposed to matter.

1 Blurb

💋 Aurora -Claire MALO – Rory

“Broke, snarky, and dangerously good at making bad decisions look fun.”

Twenty-something bartender. Queen of self-sabotage. Master of avoiding feelings for free. Recently orphaned, recently evicted, and recently desperate enough to fake-date to pay rents.

❤️‍🔥 Matéo MORIN

“Walking green flag… accessorized with a few alarming red ones.”

Sinfully attractive, emotional cactus architect.Competitive. Protective. Dangerously soft in places he pretends don’t exist. Exactly the kind of man who says “this means nothing” right before it starts meaning everything.

---

Rory needs fast cash. Matéo needs a fake girlfriend.

The rules were simple: no feelings, no mess, no strings.

What could possibly go wrong?

(Answer: literally everything. Immediately. )

Rory Malo is broke, burned-out, and emotionally barricaded.Fresh off a funeral, halfway to eviction, and still nursing wounds from the last time she let someone in, she’s clinging to her pride with caffeine, spite, and an aggressive “I’m fine” face.

The last thing she wants is help, especially not from a too-handsome architect offering her a paid fake-date gig at his resort launch.

But she agrees. Because money. Obviously.And that jawline of his that meant to be sat on.

Fake dates get complicated when the tension stops pretending. Between whispered insults, shared beds, and slow-burning looks that scream “we shouldn’t,” Rory’s about to learn that some deals don’t always come with clean exits — especially when feelings show up uninvited.

Matéo doesn’t try to fix her — he just keeps showing up. And in Rory’s duct-taped world of controlled disaster, that kind of consistency feels less like comfort… and more like a threat.

Now Rory has to ask the one question she’s been dodging her whole life:What if love isn’t the problem… what if she is?

Will she finally let herself be loved?Or will she sabotage the one thing that wasn’t supposed to hurt?

Steamy, chaotic, and emotionally unhinged,Rent-a-Date: Terms & Conditions Applied is a romcom full of hot messes, soft hearts, and a hero who wasn’t supposed to matter.

‼️READER DISCLAIMER‼️

🟢 READ IF YOU:

✔️ Love heroines with real-world problems and the grace of a trash panda in stilettos

✔️ Crave emotional development alongside the steam (and yes, there’s steam)

✔️ Appreciate inner monologue that sounds like your best friend oversharing in a bathroom stall

✔️ Like your heroes sweet, steady, and just a little bit damaged

✔️ Are here for found family, slow trust, and enemies-to-what-is-happening

✔️ Don’t mind a few spirals before the soft landing

✔️ Want a love story set in Québec, with a side of karaoke, cabaret, and casually muttered tabarnak

🔴 RUN IF YOU:

✘ Expect virginal, delicate heroines with perfect emotional regulation

✘ Need billionaire alpha males who grunt their love into yachts

✘ Think therapy is unnecessary and emotional walls are cute

✘ Want drama for drama’s sake without the character depth

✘ Hate when people have realistic financial stress, grief, or intimacy issues

✘ Are morally opposed to women owning vibrators with names

🔥✨ Follow along if you like your romcoms messy, steamy, and stitched with actual heart.

2 Wacky Wednesday

The guilt should be crushing me. Instead, here I am dragging my worn-out self into Serendipity, my not-so-glamorous place of employment, less than twenty-four hours after burying my stepmother. Grief doesn’t pay the bills, and it sure as hell doesn’t cover funeral costs.

The dressing room’s dim lights cage me in, turning the familiar walls into a claustrophobic nightmare. The cracked mirror throws back a stranger. My green eyes usually sharp enough to slice through Serendipity’s neon haze and any bullshit pickup line look hollow tonight, their dark circles laughing at my drugstore concealer’s best efforts.

My eyelashes, still tacky from tears, cling together like clumpy mascara after a bender. I blink hard, trying to unstick them, but they’re as stubborn as my emotions—tangled, messy, and not going anywhere.

I’m a patchwork of exhaustion, cosplaying as someone who didn’t just bury the only family she had left, my stepmother’s death heavier than our fractured bond ever was.

A sigh slips out as I force a smile, but my face threatens to splinter like cheap plywood. My lips—my flirty weapon- are now reduced to chapped disasters, twitching into an awkward grimace that wouldn’t charm a drunk on dollar-beer night.

“Come on, Rory,” I mutter to myself, gripping the edge of the vanity until my knuckles turn white as I stare at my hollow smile in the mirror. “You got this. Or at least fake it ’til you do.”

I toss my jacket onto the chair, and it lands with a pathetic thud. A small piece of paper flutters out of the left pocket. It’s a handmade note from one of the kids at the kindergarten where I pick up shifts. “Sorry about your mommy,” scrawled in wobbly letters, circled by a lopsided red crayon heart.

“Dammit,” I mutter, tracing the jagged edges with shaky fingers. It’s a sweet reminder of everything I’m supposed to be processing and a luxury I can’t afford right now. Not with the bills piled on my kitchen table, looming like a ticking time bomb. Not with tonight being Wacky Wednesday—where tips flow as freely as bad decisions.

I shove the note back in my pocket like it’s radioactive. Right now, I’ve got to be that Rory—the one who slings drinks and witty one-liners, keeping the crowd grinning while my heart is in a mahogany box I’m still Venmo-ing the funeral home for. The girl everyone thinks has her shit together, even when I’m one sob away from falling apart.

Eric Gauthier, my boss and a walking, talking rainbow, bursts in, waving dramatically, yanking me from my exhausted thoughts. He’s decked out in a velvet tux with sequinned lapels and a feathered brooch. Only Eric can pull off sequins with a side of empathy.

“Rory, ma belle.” Eric’s hands flutter like nervous birds, sequins catching the light. “After everything—you deserve a break. Let me send you home to rest, hmm?”. He tilts his head like a mother hen in sequins.

“A break.” The word tastes bitter. “What, like the universe would hit snooze because I had a bad week?” I scoff. “I need this, Eric. Don’t you dare send me home on Wacky Wednesday. We both know I need those tips more than I need sleep. And—” my voice snags, betraying me, “—I can’t face an empty house right now.”

Eric studies me, his rainbow-sequinned shoulders dropping. The feather in his brooch trembles with his sigh. He sees right through me—through the mascara and forced smile, past the brave face I’ve painted on. He sees straight to the part of me drowning in grief and disco beats, clinging to sanity by a thread so fine it might snap if he looks at me too long.

The door flies open before he can smother me in more pity. Delilah Divine sweeps in—six feet of sequins and attitude, trailing feathers like a peacock on a mission. “Rory, my heartbroken dove,” she purrs, each step a catwalk strut. “What you need is a sugar daddy to fix that frown.”

I roll my eyes so hard I nearly sprain something. “Delilah, I’ve aged out of the sugar baby bracket.”

“Pfft.” Her lashes bat like butterflies on Red Bull. “With those hips and that smile?” She air-draws an hourglass like she’s selling me on eBay. “You’d have them signing checks before their martini’s half-gone.”

“Easy for you to say,” I shoot back. “You’ve got this place eating out of your perfectly manicured fingers.” But my lips twitch, traitors that they are. Delilah’s sass cracks my armour, even when smiling feels like punching my own heart.

Her laughter explodes through the room like a glitter bomb—bright, infectious, and that’s all wrong against my misery. “Rory darling, just smile more and worry less!” She strikes a pinup pose, her fan fanning out like a peacock’s ego. “And never,” she taps my shoulder with her fan, “underestimate those glorious assets.” She winks. “They’re better than an RRSP—you know, our version of a 401k—trust me.”

I snort, half-laugh, half-choke, definitely not sugar-baby material. “Maybe I’ll slap a ‘for rent’ sign on them,” I say, waving at my chest. “Dear Bank, please accept these assets as collateral for my overdue payments. Sincerely, my boobs.”

“There’s the spirit!” Delilah twirls, winking like she’s trademarked it. “Confidence, babe. And a pinch of flirt.”

Eric claps like a drill sergeant in sequins, cutting through the banter. “Enough, you fabulous disasters! Rory, hit the floor. But—” his eyes soften—“promise you’ll tap out if it’s too much.”

“Cross my heart,” I lie, and we both know I’m full of it.

I take one last deep breath and shove the card deeper into my pocket, as if I can bury the grief with it. Memories of my stepmother linger just beneath the surface, raw and unwelcome. Sure, we had our differences, more than enough to fill a lifetime, but she was still the closest thing I had to family after Dad checked out.

I look straight back into my messy reflection. I was never one to wear much makeup, but tonight I made a corpse in a morgue look lively by comparison. My fingers catch in my hair—a coppery snarl that’s been feral since the funeral. “One job, hair. One.” The strands twist like barbed wire, mocking my half-hearted attempt at looking presentable. Too exhausted to fight this particular battle, I swipe a hair tie from the vanity and wrestle it into a ponytail that looks like ‘I survived a lightning strike’. Too tired to fight, I let it win.

My hand hovers on the dressing room door. Bass pounds through the walls like a separate heartbeat, promising the sweet oblivion of noise and neon. One deep breath. Two. I push through, letting the wall of sound hit me like a wave. The lights paint my skin in electric blue and pink, washing away the funeral black—if only for tonight.

Showtime, baby.

3 Whiskey and wound

The club throbs like an open wound on Wacky Wednesdays—raw, pulsing, and loud with glitter and bad decisions. Delilah and her queens own the floor, sequins catching light like scales on exotic fish, weaving through tables with the grace of cats dodging raindrops. The air’s thick with glitter-dust and regret, buzzing with the kind of energy that makes me question my life choices.

Waitresses dart through the drunk-patron obstacle course, balancing trays piled high with rainbow-colored cocktails and oversized margaritas. Laughter and chatter mix with the occasional off-key karaoke attempt, all of it clashing against the relentless thump of a pop remix pounding through the speakers.

I slip behind the bar, my fingers trailing along the gleaming counter—my battle station for the night. Neon paints everything in electric blue and desperate pink as I arm myself with a shaker and a hollow smile. Most nights, I’m part entertainer, part therapist, and part machine—shaking drinks, nodding through life stories, and keeping the energy buzzing. Tonight, I’d sell my soul to be on the other side of this counter, drowning my grief in someone else’s overpriced booze.

First up: a regular, his grin sloppier than a wet mop. “Hey, Rory, gimme one of those… whatchamacallits. With the… stuff,” he slurs, like I’m a mind reader.

I bite back a sigh and nod, already reaching for a glass. My hands go through the motions on autopilot—grabbing bottles, pouring, shaking, serving—while my mind drifts a million miles away.

Hours blur together in a haze of clinking glasses and spilled drinks. My feet throb, and the smile plastered on my face feels like it’s been stapled there. Each laugh, each joke, hollower than the last—a fading echo of energy I don’t have.

I glance at the clock—two hours into my shift, and I’m already running on fumes. My chest tightens, the grief and fatigue clawing at the seams of my composure. I grip the edge of the bar, searching for an anchor amidst this glitter-soaked storm.

A rowdy pack stumbles up with the kind of drunken confidence that promises trouble. Their laughter loud enough to wake the dead—ironic, given my week. One, a guy whose beer gut fights his shirt like it’s a cage match, slaps the counter. “Sweetheart, another round! Quick, yeah?!” His grin is unsteady as his morals.

I turn, plastering another fake smile. “Sure thing. What’s it gonna be?”

“Tequila shots, paddle for six. None of that bottom-shelf swill,” he sneers, like I’d serve him drain cleaner. “And slide one over now!” he adds, tapping the counter like he owns me.

I nod, swallowing the urge to ‘accidentally’ spill tequila in his lap. I pour the shot and slide it over. He downs it in one go, then shoots me a look like he’s sizing up my worth as a human being. “Took you long enough,” he mutters.

My stepmother always said my mouth would get me into trouble one day, and she wasn’t wrong. I choke back a retort, flashing a smile so fake it could star in a rom-com, and pivot to the next customer before I say something that costs me my tips.

“It’s just one asshole in a sea of assholes. You’ve dealt with worse, Rory.” I remind myself.

I catch sight of Eric through the crowd, sparkling under the lights as he works the room with his showman grin. His eyes keep darting to me, narrowing slightly every time I turn away from a customer. He knows I’m pushing myself too hard, but I can’t stop. Not now.

“Rory, another martini!” a regular hollers, snapping me back to reality. I nod, fumbling the shaker like my hands forgot their day job. “Keep it together,” I mutter, half-prayer, half-threat. “Fall apart later, when no one’s sober enough to notice.”

“Of course, anything for you,” I reply, my voice bright and cheerful despite the strain in every syllable.

“Whiskey. Neat. Please.” The voice cuts through the chaos like a switchblade, smooth and too sober for this circus. I look up into eyes that don’t belong in Serendipity’s neon jungle—sharp, and steady. He sits at the bar’s end, his black bomber jacket and grey polo a rebellion against our sequined chaos.

“Coming right up,” I say, reaching for the bottle. As I pour the amber liquid into a Glencairn glass, I can feel his sharp gaze settle on me. The kind of look that makes me feel both seen and studied. The sensation is unsettling, yet oddly grounding, a jarring reminder that even in a pool of strangers, someone is paying attention—though I’m not sure if I find that comforting or unnerving.

“Get yourself a drink too,” he says, sliding a crisp bill over. “You look like you’re one rude customer away from arson.”

“Wow, my face is that loud?” I quip, masking surprise with a smirk.

“Let’s just say you’ve got ‘long day’ written all over you.”

I hesitate, torn between ‘professionalism’ and the screaming need to not care. Screw it. “Normally I don’t drink on shift, but Wacky Wednesday’s already a felony, so why not?”

I grab myself a glass and quickly whip up a whiskey with ginger ale and ice, the familiar fizz of the soda offering a comforting sense of normalcy amidst the chaos. From the corner of my eye, I could feel Whiskey Neat’s intrigued gaze following my every move.

“Interesting choice,” he remarks, one eyebrow lifting. “Whiskey-ginger, that’s your poison of choice, huh?” He mused, lifting his glass in a casual toast.

“Not many can handle my elite taste,” I shoot back, leaning on the bar. “So, what brings you here? You don’t exactly blend in with the glitter crowd.”

“New in town,” he replies with a casual shrug. “My brother insisted I check this place out. Said it has ‘characters.’”

“Characters, huh?” I chuckle, shaking my head. “That’s one way to put it. So how do you like our entertainment for tonight?” I ask, letting a hint of sarcasm seep into my voice.

“Trying to… understand it,” he admits sheepishly. “Though I have to say, it’s been… eye-opening.”

“Eye-opening? What, did you expect this place to be a quiet little bookstore café?”

“Something like that,” His lips twitching into a half-smile. “But I’m adaptable. Plus, it’s not every day you get to meet a bartender with refined taste.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” I quip. “So, what does your brother do that’s dragging you into cabaret clubs?”

“He’s always one with a lot of interests, let’s put it that way,” Whiskey Neat explains. “He believes in ‘immersing oneself in diverse experiences, from law to art.’”

“Sounds like he should be writing fortune cookies,” I tease, earning another laugh from him.

“Yeah, he’s full of wisdom like that,” Whiskey Neat chuckles. “And what about you? I don’t think I’ve caught your name.”

I was about to answer his question when Beer Gut comes back, slamming his glass down like it’s a gavel. “Hey, sugar, another round!” His slurred leer drags me back to the harsh reality of my shift. His glassy eyes lock onto mine with a predatory gleam as he leans across the bar, closer than comfort allows.

I nod, keeping my voice steady. “Coming up.”

He leans closer, so close I can feel his breath hot and stale against my neck. “You know, you’re cute for a bartender. How about you join me for a drink?”

I force a laugh, stepping back to create some space. “I’m working. But thanks.”

“C’mon, don’t be cold,” he slurs, his words sticky with entitlement.

“Hey, I’m just here to serve drinks, okay?” I reply, keeping my tone as light and neutral as I can manage.

His eyes roam over me, a drunken leer curling his lips. “With curves like that, sweetheart, you’re wasted behind a bar. I could show you a real good time,” he slurs, his voice dripping with unwelcome insinuation.

His words stick to my skin like old cigarette smoke, stale and suffocating. It’s a script I know by heart—the same one I’ve been reading since puberty hit like a curse. My curves have always been both blessing and burden.The kind of curves that fill out a dress and empty a room of respect in equal measure—a blessing for tips, a curse for dignity.

Instead of responding with words, I flash a tight smile, flip him the bird without breaking rhythm, and keep wiping the bar, scrubbing his sleaze like it’s a stain on my soul.

He leans closer, his growl slinking out with a French Canadian slur. “Putain, tabarnak!” he mutters, the curse dripping with tequila-fueled swagger.

The word hits like a slap, and the club’s chaos fades, drowned by the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears. I’ve eaten worse insults—it’s bar life—but tonight, my patience is thinner than a happy hour margarita.

Tears prick, anger boiling like a kettle about to scream. I grip the rag, willing my hands not to shake or punch.

Movement blurs at the edge of my vision as Whiskey Neat materializes like heaven-sent vengeance. His hand lands on Beer Gut’s shoulder, spinning him like a puppet on strings. Even through my anger, I feel the shift in the air, I swear Whiskey Neat’s presence seems to drop the temperature ten degrees with his polite smile that doesn’t quite reach those sharp eyes.

“Hey, buddy.” Whiskey Neat’s voice carries the kind of quiet that makes people listen—the kind that suggests he’s used to being heard. “She said she’s working. How about an apology, and then you move along?”

“Who the hell are you?” The guy’s bravado falters slightly, his gaze darting between Whiskey Neat and me. His face flushes deeper, a mix of tequila and bruised ego—though it’s hard to tell which is winning.

“Someone who knows boundaries,” Whiskey Neat replies in a polite tone yet manages to sound dangerous. “Now, apologize to the lady and find somewhere else to be.”

Beer Gut sneers, shoving the hand off. “Fuck off.”

Whiskey Neat doesn’t flinch, still as a predator before the pounce. “Last chance.”

There’s something in his voice that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Beer Gut falters, scanning for allies in a room that’s suddenly blind. No one steps in.

“Sir,” Eric’s voice cuts through the tension, one syllable drips with both sass and steel. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave, and do us all a favour: take your poor manners with you.”

“Whatever, man,” Beer Gut growls, stumbling as he pushes himself to his feet. “This place is a joke anyway.”

“Funny, that’s exactly what we said about you when you walked in,” I mutter under my breath, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

Whiskey Neat stifles a chuckle beside me, his eyes sparkling like he’s in on the joke.

“Out. Now.” Eric’s tone leaves no room for negotiation, and with one more huff, the drunken bastard staggers toward the exit, dignity thoroughly shredded.

“And you, my darling, come here.” Eric’s voice softens as he turns his attention to me. “You’ve been through enough tonight. Go home, take a cold shower, binge-watch some trashy reality TV. We’ll manage without you.”

“Eric, I’m fine.” I protest, though exhaustion weighs down every word.

“Sweetheart, if anyone deserves a break, it’s you.” He places a hand on my shoulder, his touch both comforting and insistent. “Consider it an order.” He says, his tone casual but his eyes intent, “And you know Rory, not everyone who offers help is looking to collect a debt later. Some of us just… care.”

The words sting like a backhanded compliment. I open my mouth for a comeback, but my snark’s on strike. I stare, caught off-guard by his sincerity.

“I know that,” I finally manage, the lie bitter on my tongue.

Eric’s smile is sad, knowing, and too damn perceptive. “Sure you do, darling. Now go home, get some rest. We’ll survive without our warrior princess for one night.”

I want to argue—I need the tips, need the distraction, need to prove I can handle it—but the fight drains out of me as quickly as it came. Maybe, just this once, I can grab the lifeline without checking for strings.

“All right, all right.” I say quietly, giving in to the inevitable. “But only because I don’t want you to make a scene to top this scene,” I say while gesturing at the chaos.

“That’s my girl.” Eric’s smile was both warm and knowing. “Now, shoo! Shoo!”

“Thank you, Eric,” I say, meaning it more than I want to admit. “For everything.”

“Anything for my favorite bartender,” he winks, already swanning off to tame another crisis at the far end of the bar.

“Looks like you’ve got your marching orders.” Whiskey Neat’s voice has lost its edge, softening into something almost gentle. The contrast makes my chest tight. “Seems that way.” I manage a smile that feels less fake than it’s been all night. “About earlier…” I pause, suddenly aware of how many ways to say thank you feel inadequate. “You didn’t have to step in.”

“No,” he agrees, those sharp eyes finding mine. “I wanted to.”

I offer a small wave, my fingers curling through air that suddenly feels too thick. Then I slip through the back door like smoke, leaving behind the noise, the chaos, and the guy whose name I don’t know but whose gaze I can still feel. I swear, I can almost hear it whispering, “I’m not done with you yet, you delightful disaster.”

4 Stale sandwich

I slip out of Serendipity, trading the sticky heat and vodka-tinged air for midnight’s sharp bite. The bass thumps behind me like a dying pulse, fading with each step until all that’s left is the whisper of my shoes against concrete and the distant wail of a siren.

The chaos inside melts into eerie stillness. A breeze bites against my skin, peeling away the lingering heat of Wacky Wednesday and the exhaustion clinging to me like a second skin.

I barely made it through the night, but I’m too wired to face my home’s suffocating silence.

My stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten since, well, I can’t even remember.

I drag myself to the 24-hour convenience store, a fluorescent purgatory down the block. The bell above the door jingles as I enter. It’s empty, except for the bored-looking cashier who doesn’t even glance up from his phone as I wander the aisles.

I grab a pack of gummy candies, a soda, and one of those plastic-wrapped sandwiches that probably has a shelf life longer than student loans.It’s a sad haul, but right now, even this feels like a vacation—something mindless, something easy.

I step back outside, the cool night air brushing against my skin as I scan the empty parking lot. I claim a curb corner under a flickering fluorescent’s blue buzz, its spastic shadows dancing like my nerves. I settle down cross-legged on the curb and settle into my impromptu sad picnic under the sporadic glow.

Neon lights and bad food—small distractions from the bigger, lonelier thing waiting for me at home. If I stall long enough, maybe the silence won’t feel like it’s swallowing me whole.

My sandwich is stale and dry, but I’m too hungry to care. I take a bite, my mind spinning with the thoughts I’ve been dodging all night. The grief, the exhaustion, the relentless grind of trying to hold it all together—it’s all there, pressing down on me like a physical weight.

The soft crunch of footsteps on the pavement behind me pulls me back to reality. My shoulders tense on instinct, a flicker of alertness prickling at the edges of my exhaustion.

I glance up, my gaze narrowing as I spot him—Whiskey Neat. He walks towards me with hands shoved in his pockets, looking almost sheepish, like he’s trespassing on my misery.

“Hey,” he says, pausing like I might bolt. “Mind if I join you?”

I raise an eyebrow, glancing around the deserted parking lot.

“Are you following me?”

He chuckles. “No, just a happy coincidence. Or, you know, serendipity.”

I snort, shaking my head as I pat the empty spot beside me. “Fine, sit, Serendipity Boy.”

He settles down, keeping a respectful distance, but close enough that his cologne drifts over, all woodsy and annoyingly pleasant.

“Late-night snack?” he asks, nodding towards my sadwich.

“Something like that,” I say, taking another bite. “And you? What brings you to this fine establishment?”

“Fueling up,” he says, jerking a thumb at a sleek black Land Rover parked half-hidden behind a stack of windshield wiper fluid like it’s evidence. “Didn’t expect to run into my favourite bartender out here, though.”

“Your favourite bartender, huh?” I smirk, shaking my head. “You must not get out much.”

He laughs, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. “You got me there. But seriously, are you okay? That guy back at the bar was a real piece of work.”

I shrug, picking at the corner of the sandwich wrapper. “I’m fine… I’ve dealt with worse.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Just studies me with his intense eyes as if he is trying to piece together what I won’t say aloud.

I stuff the rest of the sandwich into my mouth to muzzle myself. I have a history of oversharing—and this feels dangerously close to the edge.

“So,” he says, a small smile playing on his lips. “Is binge-eating alone in parking lots your usual post-shift vibe, or is this a special occasion?”

I roll my eyes, swallowing the last bite. “Yeah, I’m celebrating my new diet plan: cheap carbs and existential dread.”

His laugh is warm, real, and I hate how it almost makes me smile. “Well, I’m glad I could witness the kickoff. But seriously, you shouldn’t be out here alone. It’s not exactly the best place to have a late-night picnic. Can I drive you home?”

I shake my head, crumpling the sandwich wrapper in my hand before I stuff it in my bag.

“Thanks, but I’m good. Stranger danger’s my motto, and you’re still Stranger Exhibit A.”

“Stranger danger, huh?” He grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Fair point. But do you really think sitting alone in a parking lot after midnight is safer than a ride with me?”

“I’ll take my chances. My place is just right around the corner, anyway.”

His smile dims, a flicker of worry in his eyes, like he’s not used to losing arguments. “Alright, but I’m not ditching you here. How about I walk with you? No car, no creep vibes, just me trailing like a lost puppy so you can still follow the whole ‘stranger danger’ rule.”

I pause, his offer hitting like a curveball. Something about him—those steady eyes, the way he’s not pushing—makes me want to say yes. But I don’t know him. And trusting people hasn’t exactly worked out well for me lately.

“I don’t know—” I begin, but he raises a hand, gentle as a truce.

“I get it,” he says softly. “You don’t know me, and you’ve had a rough night. But I promise, I just want to make sure you get home safely. You can even walk ten steps ahead of me if that helps.”

“Persistent little hero, aren’t you?” I mutter, half-annoyed, half-charmed.

“It’s my superpower.” He grins, standing up and offering me a hand. “So, what do you say?”

I eye his hand, then his face, boyish and stupidly earnest. Maybe it’s the exhaustion. Maybe it’s the loneliness. Or maybe it’s how he’s looking at me—like I’m not just the girl who pours drinks and pretends she’s fine, but I grab his hand, letting him haul me up.

“Alright, Whiskey Neat,” I say, dusting off my jeans. “Keep up, or I’m leaving you for the raccoons.”

---

I let us walk side by side, his footsteps steady beside mine as we move through the quiet streets. The city is a different kind of beautiful at this hour, the usual chaos muted by the lateness of the night.

“So,” he starts, glancing over at me with a curious smile, “what exactly is Wacky Wednesday at Serendipity all about?”

I chuckle at his honest question. “Wacky Wednesday is kind of a free-for-all, bring-your-own-entertainment thing,” I explain, shoving my hands into the pockets of my jacket. “It’s where our regulars and new faces come together to create a mess of karaoke, ridiculous drink specials, and enough poor life choices to fill a reality TV show. Whatever pleases them.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Sounds like a real party.”

“Oh, it is,” I say with a grin. “You get everything from drag queens belting out power ballads to frat boys crooning boyband classics like they’re auditioning for a comeback tour. It’s loud, it’s ridiculous—but it’s home.”

“And you, what’s your role in all of this madness?”

“Me?” I shrug, feeling a bit more at ease as I explain. “Just a humble bartender— holding down the fort; keeping the drinks flowing and the disasters to a minimum. It’s like being the ringmaster of a circus, except with more glitter and fewer safety regulations.”

“That’s impressive. You’ve got to have the patience of a saint to deal with that every week.” He says with amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Patience? Nah, just high tolerance for insanity. To be honest, I love working there. We have a solid crew—a bit unhinged, but solid. It just… tonight, I find it hard to love anything.” I pause, glancing over at him. “What about you? You seemed a bit… out of place tonight.”

“Yeah… My brother thought it would be good for me to ‘get out of my comfort zone.’” He makes air quotes with his fingers, and I laugh.

“So he dragged you to a cabaret club? on Wacky Wednesday?” I shake my head in mock disapproval. “He really threw you into the deep end.”

“He did,” he agrees, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “But I have to admit, it was… interesting.”

“Interesting, huh?” I tease, nudging him lightly with my elbow. “Is that code for ‘I’m never setting foot in there again’?”

“Not quite,” he says, glancing at me with a sideways smile. “More like, ’I wasn’t expecting to meet a bartender whose poison of choice is a simple whiskey-ginger, but here we are. I mean you literally have a whole library of liquors at your disposal…”

“I’m a liquor librarian? I like that!” I say, appreciating my new professional title.

He chuckles, his eyes softening as he looks at me. “I didn’t say…”

“Hey, don’t strip me of my new professional title!”

He looks at me and shakes his head, but I can see his subtle smile, and somehow I feel a lot better.

“You know, I think I will forgive my brother for dragging me to Serendipity tonight.”

“Oh, you will? That’s great!” I raise an eyebrow, curious despite myself.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful. “Thanks to you.”

Oh. Oh.

His words linger, and I can’t decide if I should feel flattered or teased, making me shift uneasily,and I look away. I suddenly find the loose pebbles on the pavement very fascinating.

“Wacky Wednesday isn’t just a thing we do at the club,” I say finally. “It’s a… distraction. For all of us. A chance to forget everything else, even if it’s just for a night.”

He nods, as if he understands. Maybe he does. “And what do you do when the distraction is over?”

“Well…,” I say, forcing a smile. “In my case, other distractions find me.”

He looks at me, his eyes searching mine like he’s trying to see the pieces I keep hidden. It’s unsettling.

“What about you?” I say, dodging his gaze.

“Maybe I’ll tell you someday.” He says with a wink.

“Someday, huh?” I smirk, trying to lighten the mood. “That sounds suspiciously like a promise, Whiskey Neat.”

“Maybe it is.” He teases. And damn him for making me wish it is.

We turn onto my street, and my steps drag as the familiar—yet now unfamiliar—sight of my old home looms ahead. The For Sale sign stands crooked in the yard, its white letters a blaring reminder that I don’t belong here anymore. That I never really did. My chest tightens.

I stop a few feet from the house, staring at it like it might disappear if I just blink hard enough. But it doesn’t. It’s still there, mocking me, reminding me that I have nowhere else to go. Whiskey Neat follows my gaze, his curiosity shifting to worry.

“That’s your place?” he asks quietly, as if sensing the delicate balance I’m trying to maintain.

“Yeah,” I say, my voice coming out thicker than I intended, despite my best effort to sound breezy. “Well, it’s where I lived. My half-brother decided to put it up for sale the minute Mom passed—well, his mom, technically—then kicked me out like he was doing me a favour.” I let out a short, bitter laugh, trying to brush it off. “I figured I’d lay low till the end of the week. Then I’ll figure out where to go next.”

I point toward the side window, winking to hide the ache. “That’s my old escape route. Sneaky teen vibes.”

His eyes widen slightly, and I can see he’s trying to process what I just said. His gaze darts intently between the house and me. “And you’re just… okay with that?”

“Of course not,” I laugh, sharp and hollow. “But it’s his house, legally. Dad left it to his real family, not the mistake he dragged home.” I try to keep my smile in place, but it feels like it’s cracking at the edges. I hate how exposed I feel under his gaze, like he’s seeing more than I’m comfortable showing. But I can’t stop the words from spilling out.

The porch light flickers, casting shadows that dance across the peeling paint – the same paint job from seventeen years ago when Dad first brought me here. I remember standing on these steps, clutching a shabby backpack while he explained to his wife why his mistake needed a place to stay. ‘Just until we figure something out,’ he’d said. But temporary turned permanent, and his guilt turned into distance, and somehow we all learned to live in the spaces between what we were and what we were supposed to be.

“I’ve lived here since dad brought me into his family,” I say, gesturing vaguely at the house. “I used to sneak out of my window at night when I was a kid. He caught me once, and instead of grounding me, he showed me how to do it quietly so I wouldn’t wake him up. He was a long-haul truck driver, he needed sleep more than he cared about his daughter’s curfew.”

A sad smile tugs at my lips as the memory floods back, bittersweet and painful. “I thought about inviting you in, but I don’t think you’d fit through the window gap. And, well, technically, it’d be breaking and entering for you.”

I laugh softly, but Whiskey Neat just stares like he’s trying to piece together the puzzle that is my life.

“This isn’t right,” he says finally. “You shouldn’t have to go through this.”

His words hit me like a punch to the gut, and I look away, blinking back the tears that are threatening to spill over. “Yeah, well… life’s not exactly fair, is it?”

He doesn’t answer, and I force myself to take a deep breath, turning back to him with a shaky smile. “Anyway, thanks for walking me home. I’d invite you in, but you know… window gap.”

He huffs out a laugh, though it’s clear he’s still troubled. “Yeah, I’m not exactly built for breaking and entering.”

I smirk, “No, you definitely have ‘law-abiding citizen’ written all over you.”

We stand there for a moment, the silence stretching between us, heavy with everything left unsaid. Finally, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. “Can I at least get your name and number? I’ll send you a picture to prove I got back to my car safely since you’re clearly worried.”

“Worried?” I scoff. “Most folks would run from you at this hour.”

He grins and his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Maybe, but you’re not like most people.”

“You’ve got a point there.” He hands me his phone, and for a second, I hesitate.

Then, I type my number, half wondering if I’ll regret it later.

He reads the screen. “Rory, huh?”

I smirk. “Yeah, it’s short for… well, never mind. That’s all you get for now.”

He nods, pocketing his phone. His gaze lingers for a beat. “Alright, Rory. I’ll let you get some rest.”

“Thanks,” I manage, forcing lightness into my tone. “Goodnight, Whiskey Neat.”

“Goodnight, Ms. Refined Taste.”

---

Rory, did you forget to ask his name? 🤨 Will he call? Follow and find out 😘

5 Dogwalk gig

I let him vanish into the night without even knowing his name, just a fleeting spark I don’t need to name. I take a deep breath and walk up to the side of the house, where the window I used to sneak out of is still slightly ajar. After seventeen years as an unwanted guest, I’m now demoted to squatter. Story of my life, hein?

I hoist myself up, squeezing through the gap like a cat burglar with a grudge, landing with a thud in the dark living room. The familiar musty scent hits me first—a mix of stale air and forgotten memories.

In the dark, surrounded by the weight of what used to be, my mind drifts back to Whiskey Neat’s face when I mentioned the house. That flash of concern in his eyes, the way his jaw tightened just slightly—like he knew something I didn’t. Strange how someone I barely know could look so… caring?

I shake my head, pushing the thought away as I head to what used to be my room. The house is cold and empty, but it’s still mine, at least for now. I collapse onto the couch, letting out a long breath, and pull out my phone to see what I’ve missed.

Not much, as expected. Only a message from Chen, my childhood partner in crime who works as a tech at the local vet:

New client at the vet. Needs a dog walker. This thing’s a beast. Owner’s willing to pay triple the usual rate. Because, again, BEAST. I told him I’d send someone over tomorrow at 8 AM

Triple the rate? A beast? What, is it a werewolf? Consider me intrigued.

If anyone can handle a beast, it’s you. Human or animal. It’s not aggressive, just scared and confused. You’ve got this. After all, you’re the one who tames the cage of savages at Serendipity.

Chen always knows how to spin things. Wrangling a wild animal might just be the kind of distraction I need.

Thanks, I’ll be there. I hit reply.

I toss my phone onto the table, ready to head for the shower when it buzzes again. The unexpected vibration makes me jump—this house has me more on edge than I thought.

Message unsupported.

I frown, unlocking the phone to check the text.

Hi, this is Matéo. I got an error return message. Hope you gave me the right number. Anyway, I’m home safe.

Matéo? Huh? Who?

Oh.

Oh.

My heart doing an annoying little skip when I see who it’s from. Didn’t think he’d actually text. Guess chivalry’s not dead afterall. And of course, I forgot to warn him about my technological dinosaur of a phone—one that rejects images, emojis, and apparently, any modern form of communication.

I hover over the keys, then lean into the chaos:

The number you are contacting isn’t in service. Because she has an old-ass phone.

I hit send, grinning like an idiot, wondering what he’ll make of that. Bam, instant reply:

Seriously? Do you also have a landline I should try? Or maybe I should just send a pigeon next time?

I cackle, shaking my head as I reply.

Carrier pigeons only, please. And no smoke signal, because you know, fire hazard and pollution. Or you could just text me like it’s 1999.

His response pings like he’s waiting by the phone:

I’ll keep that in mind. How’s the fossil phone holding up? Should I be worried it might explode?”

I smirk, feeling lighter than I have all day.

It’s a survivor, unlike the new, fragile ones. So, you know, no exploding is expected anytime soon.

Good to know. I’d hate to think my messages caused a meltdown. He shoots back.

Don’t flatter yourself, Whiskey Neat. You’re not that dangerous.

There’s a brief pause, and then:

Touché. But, for the record, I’m glad I didn’t need a search party for you.

I hesitate, fingers itching to keep this going, then type:

Don’t worry. I’m tougher than I look.

His next reply was slower, like he took time choosing his words carefully.

I don’t doubt it. But still, take care, okay? Old-ass phone and all.

I smile at the screen, a weird warmth spreading in my chest. It’s just a text, but there’s something about how genuine it is that makes me feel… I don’t know. Seen?

Will do. Thanks for checking in. And hey, thanks for walking me home.

Anytime. Get some rest, Rory. He replies.

Goodnight, Matéo.

I stare at the screen for a moment longer. This short little chat lightens up my mood. And the fact that he’s gorgeous did help. A lot.

I set the phone down, suddenly aware of how heavy my limbs feel. The house’s silence presses in, making my skin itch with the need to wash away… everything.

I step into the shower, sighing as the hot water works its magic on my aching muscles. The steady rhythm of droplets drowns out the house’s emptiness, creates a cocoon of warmth and white noise where I can finally let my guard down. My mind, annoyingly, wanders to Whiskey Neat. The way his voice softened when he said I shouldn’t have to go through this alone. He made me laugh when I thought I had nothing left in me.

The watered-down peony soap barely lathers, but I scrub anyway—like the suds might rinse away more than sweat and city grime. The soft floral scent clings in the humid air, wrapping around me as the soap rinses away, swirling down the drain. I lean against the tiles, water pounding like it’s trying to drown my thoughts, but Matéo’s grin lingers, stubborn as my grief. “Not the time, Rory,” I remind myself. “Not when everything else is falling apart.”

---

❤️ Thank you for reading! And do you have a pet? Drop their name on the comment and one thing you find it adorable about them!

6 Nancy

The sun drenches Saint-Louis street in gold as I approach the address Chen sent me for the dog-beast walking gig, each step taking me deeper into old money neighbourhood. Mansions loom and their polished facades sneer at my usual clients’ modest bungalows. The Saint-Laurent river stretches out below, gleaming like a makeup influencer’s highlighter—too much but kind of slay. No wonder the French-Canadian bougie claimed this cliffside centuries ago. My sundress and well-worn flats suddenly felt like every bit the intruder. I should’ve at least pretended to own a hairbrush.

I stop at the gate, double-checking the address Chen sent, partly convinced she made a mistake and sent me to Narnia. But nope, this is it.

The house is massive—a modern architectural beast of clean lines, endless glass, and sleek black trim, effortlessly expensive. My footsteps echo on the pristine stone path, mocking my nerve.

I ring the doorbell, fussing with my hair like it will magically behave.

The black door swings open, and my heart yeets itself into orbit. Whiskey Neat—Matéo fills the frame in low-slung pajama pants, looking like he strolled out of a thirst trap.

His eyes pop wide, and we freeze, a mutual shock-stare showdown.

“Rory?” His voice carries that same shock wave I’m feeling while I fight a losing battle to keep my eyes off his abs.

“Whiskey Neat?” I blurt out and instantly want to kick myself. Of all the things to say…

“I, uh, wasn’t expecting you.” He blinks, rubbing his neck, hair tousled, and unfairly hot for 8 a.m.

“Same,” I mutter, fiddling with my bag strap. “I’m here to, uh, walk a dog? For a client?”

“Wait, you’re the dog walker?”

“Apparently,” I say, cheeks burning under his stare. “Chen sent me. From the vet? Something about a beast needing a handler.”

He hesitates, “Yeah. But, Rory, I’m not sure you—” He cuts himself off, glancing between me and the house. “The dog is… a lot.”

“A lot, huh? Try me.” I say, crossing my arms.

He sighs, half-smirking. “Okay, come on in. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He says while he steps aside and open the door.

The interior of the house is just as impressive as the outside—open, modern, with an effortless elegance that makes me feel even more out of place. Matéo leads me down the hallway and into a spacious living room, where the ‘beast’ in question is sprawled out on a dog bed big enough to double as a sofa cushion.

Holy hell, he’s huge—a Cane Corso breed, sharp and brawny. But his eyes wary, wounded. I’ve seen that look before, in mirrors and in others who’ve learned the hard way not to trust too easily.

“Meet Thor,” Matéo says, voice laced with doubt. “Though he doesn’t really respond to it.”

I step closer to the four-legged tank on his cushy throne, slow and easy. “Hey, big guy. Rough go, huh?” His eyes lock on mine, not growling, just… waiting. I glance back at Matéo who’s watching me closely. “What’s his story?”.

“He was abandoned at one of my construction sites. Tied up in the backyard, no food, no water.” He says, leaning to the couch. “The vet said his breed makes him hard to rehome, so… here we are… I’m still trying to get him to trust me.”

“You’re a softie, Whiskey Neat,” I say, half-teasing, half-impressed.

He chuckles, pointing at the dog. “That big boy deserves a chance.”

My heart clenches at his words, I crouch slightly next to the dog bed, keeping my voice light. “Hey, big guy. You’ve been through a lot, huh?”

Thor—or whatever his name is—watches me, his head tilted slightly. I crouch down a few feet away, giving him space. “You know, you don’t really look like a Thor to me.”

Matéo raises an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest. “Oh yeah? And what do you think he looks like? Lazarus? I thought that name too”

I squint, tilting my head as I study the dog’s broad face and soulful eyes. “Naaaah, honestly? He looks more like a Nancy.”

“Nancy?” Matéo repeats, and I catch the way his lips twitch, fighting a grin.

“Yeah,” I say, grinning. “He has that secretly-judging-you vibe.”

The dog’s tail thumps against the floor, like he’s signing the name change. I ease my hand out, slow as molasses.

“See? He likes it. Don’t you, Nancy?”

“No way,” he mutters, shaking his head. “That’s not possible.”

“Looks like we found his name,” I say while Nancy let me to give him a scratch, and I swear I can see the beginnings of a smile in his puppy eyes. I feel my heart lighter than it has in days instantly.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Matéo murmurs, his gaze softening as he watches us. “I guess he’s a Nancy after all.”

“You are a Nancy, are you buddy?” I say to the dog while scratching him.

He looks at me then, really looks at me, and for a moment, I feel like the air has shifted between us. There’s something in his eyes that makes my pulse quicken.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “People ran for the hills when they saw him. But you didn’t.”

I swallow, suddenly feeling a little too warm under his gaze. “What can I say? I’ve got a way with the misfits.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to see that.” He nods.

We linger in the silence, a charged moment stretching between us. I clear my throat, shaking off the spell.

“So, should I take Nancy for a walk?” I reach for the leash on the table.

He pulls it back. “You know what? I’ll go with you guys. Just give me a sec to put on something more appropriate.” He grins sheepishly. “Meanwhile, make yourself at home.”

“Oh, come on,” I protest. “Nancy will be fine. Chen wouldn’t have sent me if she didn’t trust me with dogs.”

Matéo crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against the doorframe, his eyes never leaving mine. “I’m not worried about Nancy. I’m more concerned about you. That dog can pull, trust me.”

I open my mouth to argue, but something in his expression makes me stop. The way he says it, so sincere and almost protective.

“Alright, fine. But just so you know, I’ve handled dogs twice and it was a breeze.” I exhale through my nose, lifting a brow.

“I don’t doubt it. But humor me, okay? You’ll still get credit for walking him, I promise.” He says, handing me the leash.

“Deal,” I say, shaking my head with a smile as I clip the leash onto Nancy’s collar who is now wagging his tail so fast his whole body moves.

Matéo disappears down the hall, and I find myself alone with Nancy, who’s watching me with those big, soulful eyes of his. “You’re not so scary, are you, big guy?”.

Matéo comes back in jeans and a fitted sweater that does nothing to hide the fact that he’s built like he could probably bench-press half of Nancy’s weight without breaking a sweat.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Ready,” I reply, standing up and giving the leash a gentle tug. “Let’s prove Nancy’s a teddy bear, not a terror.”

The gentle breeze carries hints of water and fresh-cut grass, disgustingly perfect like everything else here. The path winds down toward the river, Nancy padding between us like a furry buffer zone. I can feel Matéo’s gaze on me, warm and curious, but I keep my eyes ahead. Looking at him feels dangerous somehow, like staring directly at the sun.

“So, does this place come with a butler or something?” I tease, giving the leash a gentle tug as Nancy gets a little too interested in a patch of tulips.

Matéo chuckles, shaking his head. “No, just a lot of yard work. I’d offer to let you handle that too, but I’m guessing dog-walking and behavior training are your specialties.”

I laugh, glancing at him. “Yep, yard work is where I draw the line.”

He smiles, and I can see a hint of something in his eyes—amusement?. “You’d be surprised. You seem to have a way of making things better.”

I roll my eyes, though my cheeks warm despite the cool morning air. “You’re laying it on thick, Whiskey Neat.”

“Just stating facts,” he says lightly.

We walk in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds the crunch of pebbles underfoot and the gentle lapping of the river against the bank.

“Speaking of which, I was promised a beast that would earn me triple pay. Either Chen was exaggerating or you’ve been holding out on me. This doesn’t look like the canine nightmare I was warned about.”

“Oh, you should have seen him when I got him to the vet,” Matéo says, a rueful smile playing on his lips. “He dragged the vet techs across the exam room and nearly took down the reception desk. He’s a lot calmer since, especially now

I raise an eyebrow, giving Nancy a reassessing look. “Is that right, big guy? You’ve been on your best behavior for me?” Nancy wags his tail, looking almost smug, and I can’t help but smile. “I’m still charging you the beast rate, though.”

Matéo’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “Worth every penny.”

“You know,” he says after a while, his voice breaking the silence, “I’ve been trying to get Nancy comfortable with other people for weeks now. I’m impressed.”

I shrug, trying to downplay the warm glow his words bring. “He’s a good boi. He just needs some time to adjust.” I give the giant pup a gentle correction when he lunges at a squirrel darting across the sidewalk. He huffs but quickly settles, looking back at me as if to check in.

“I hope you don’t mind,” I say, glancing over at Matéo. “I don’t just take them for a walk, I correct them too. It’s important for the walk to be enjoyable for everyone—for me, for them, and for anyone we pass by.”

“By all means, go ahead,” he replies. “Nancy seems to respond well to you. I’m impressed!”

I smile at his praise. “Most of my clients hire me because they’re not comfortable walking their dogs alone. I try to help them so they can eventually enjoy walks together.”

Matéo frowns thoughtfully. “But doesn’t that mean you’re working yourself out of a job?”

“If that’s what it takes for them to have a better relationship with their dogs, then I’m fine with it,” I say, shrugging. “You know, for dogs, their world is only as big as you show them.”

Matéo is silent for a moment, his gaze on me thoughtful and intense. “That’s… Damn noble.” he says finally. “Most people would focus on keeping clients, not helping them move on.”

I try to play it cool even as my heart does a weird little flip. “Yeah, good karma but bad for business?”

We continue walking along the riverbank, the conversation flowing easily, touching on lighter topics like how Matéo ended up in Quebec, his ventures, and the best spots in town for a quiet cup of coffee.

We’re almost back at the house when the clouds above us start to thicken, turning a dark, foreboding shade of gray. I glance up just as the first drops of rain begin to fall, fat and cold against my skin. He tugs off his sweater and hands it to me. “Here, cover yourself.”

The sweater is still warm from his body heat, and the scent of him—something woodsy and clean—hits me as I hold it. I should just put it on. That would be the sensible thing to do.

“I have a better idea,” I say, grinning up at him. “I count to three, and we race back to your place!”

Matéo looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “What?”

“Three!” I bolt down the path, Nancy’s excited barks mixing with my laughter as puddles explode beneath our feet. Behind us, I hear Matéo’s startled laugh, then the sound of his pursuit.

Nancy races beside me, his tail wagging like a propeller, clearly loving the impromptu sprint. We skid and splash along the wet path, dodging puddles. I hear Matéo closing in, his longer strides closing the gap fast. But I push harder, rain-soaked and breathless, the house looming closer through the downpour.

Just as I reach the patio, a hand brushes against my arm. Matéo, drenched from head to toe, grinning from ear to ear. “You’re crazy,” his voice breathless.

“Yeah, but look at Nancy!” I gesture at the dog, who’s wagging his tail so hard his whole body is shaking. “He loves it.”

Matéo glances at Nancy, who’s still bouncing around like he’s just won the lottery, then back at me. His gaze softens, we just stand there, drenched and grinning like idiots in the middle of the storm.

“Let’s get inside before we catch a cold,” he says, his tone light but his eyes still dark with whatever it is he’s not saying.

“Yeah, good idea,” I agree. “Come on, Nancy.”

I run my fingers along the smooth kitchen counter as he searches for towels, leaving wet footprints on his immaculate floor. “I’m ruining your perfect bachelor pad.”

He looks back at me, “Maybe it needed a little ruining.”

7 Stranger danger

Nancy shakes himself off, sending droplets flying everywhere, his tail still wagging like a metronome. He looks up at me with his happy eyes, as if this whole soaking wet mess was the best part of his day.

“There you go, big guy,” I murmur, drying him off with a towel. He gives me a grateful look before trotting off to his bed and curling up like a damp croissant. I wipe my face with the back of my hand and catch Matéo watching me. His smile lingers, and something warm flutters in my chest.

Am I allergic to hot guys now?

“Here,” he says, holding out another towel. “Your turn.”

“Thanks,” I reply, taking it from him. I dab at my hair and shoulders like it’ll fix my drowned-rat aesthetic.

I can feel Matéo’s gaze over me, subtle but heavy, like he’s trying not to stare. I freeze, unsure what to do with the weight of his attention on me. Then, I decide, to hell with second-guessing. I’ve spent enough time overthinking everything.

I wrap the towel tightly and tug off my dress’s cap sleeves, letting it pool at my ankles. I step out of it and kick off my sneakers, standing in just my underwear and a towel. If I’m going down, might as well make it memorable.

What the actual hell, Rory? My brain screams at me to stop, to remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea. But I shove it aside. I don’t want to think—I want to feel. I glance at Matéo, daring myself to hold his gaze.

“I don’t want to drip everywhere,” I say, marvelling at how steady my voice sounds when my heart is anything but. His gaze roams, dragging over my bare shoulders, dipping to the curves of my cleavage before trailing lower. His gaze feels like a whisper against my skin, a slow burn that spreads before I can stop it.

“Uh…” Matéo clears his throat, his gaze snapping back up to my face. His eyes widen, like he’s been caught peeking, and a faint flush creeps up his neck. “You can use the bathroom in the master bedroom to freshen up. The guest room isn’t finished yet, sorry.”

He’s trying to be polite, but I don’t miss the way his eyes linger, the slight clench of his jaw, the way he’s clearly at war with himself. He’s flustered and it’s damn cute.

I shouldn’t be doing this. Not with my life in shambles. Not with someone I just met.

But I’m tired of thinking. Tired of stitching myself together with caffeine and spite. I want to forget, to lose myself in something that doesn’t sting.

“Lead the way.” I say, my voice light but laced with a challenge. I like the way his eyes darken, the way he hesitates—just for a second—before he nods and leads me down the hallway.

The master bedroom is impressive, just like the rest of the house. Massive windows overlook the St. Lawrence River, the rain streaking the glass, turning the view into a blurred watercolour of gray. It’s beautiful—haunting, in a lonely sort of way.

“Here’s the bathroom. Take your time,” he opens the frosted black French door.

“Thanks,” I reply. His hand still rests on the doorframe, his body angled toward mine. The heat between us hums, my pulse quickening in response. I tell myself to move, to walk away. But the way he’s looking at me—steady, unreadable, charged—makes me want to stay. To see what happens next.

I step past him, catching the faint woodsy scent of his cologne as I go, screwing my head. I can feel his gaze on me as I walk away. And a part of me wishes he’d follow.

I shut the bathroom door and left it unlocked.

I step under the hot spray, letting the water rinse away the rain and whatever doubt I still have left.

What am I doing?

I shake my head, but the question feels hollow. This is insane. I barely know him. But it doesn’t feel insane. It feels… thrilling. Dangerous in a way I don’t want to resist.

After the hot shower that does nothing to soothe the lingering buzz of adrenaline, I find Matéo waiting at the window back in the bedroom.

“I, uh, found you some clothes, meanwhile, your dress is in the dryer,” nodding to a t-shirt and sweats on the bed. “They’re probably big, though.”

“Perfect,” I cut in, stepping closer, my eyes never leaving his. “Thank you.”

My heartbeat quickens at the way his hands curl into fists, like he’s holding back a storm.

I should say something. I should walk away. Instead, my fingers move on their own, brushing lightly against his. His hand tenses beneath mine, but he doesn’t pull away. I trace my thumb over the rough ridges of his calloused skin, warmth radiating through the touch, sending a jolt straight to my chest.

I look up. His eyes meet mine—dark, conflicted, and so unbearably honest.

I shouldn’t be doing this. I should be figuring out how to pay my bills, how to put my life back together. But right now, none of that matters.

Not when he’s this close and his fingers are laced with mine.

I rise onto my toes, closing the space between us. And before I can second-guess myself, I tug him down to me, my lips crashing against his. This will bite me later, but screw later.

His eyes widen, then he’s kissing me back, cupping my face gently with his big hands. I press closer, my hands tangling in his hair, and I feel him shudder under my touch. He pulls back slightly, his breath ragged. His thumb brushing gently over my cheeks, “Rory,” he murmurs, his voice wrecked and low, like he’s been screaming my name all night. “What about stranger danger?”

I smirk, my hands trailing down his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath the soft fabric of his shirt. “Right now,” I whisper, letting my lips brush his ear. “I’m the stranger. And I’m the danger.”

“Of course, you’d say something like that,” he murmurs, his hands sliding down to grip my hips, his thumbs tracing circles on my hipbones, slow, like he’s asking permission.

“Sure about this?” he asks, as he presses his forehead pressed mine, breath tangling with mine. His gaze drops to my lips, then back to my eyes, heat so fierce I nearly forget my own damn name.

I should say no. I should say something responsible.

Instead, I give the towel a little tug and let it slip to the floor—my last defence crumpling between us.

“Jesus, Rory…” It leaves his mouth like a prayer. His hands hover just above my skin like touching me might break the spell.

“Matéo,” I breathe, cupping his face, my fingers trembling as I brush his bottom lip. His breath catches, dark eyes falling shut as he fights for control. “Are you really going to make me beg?”

“I’m trying to be good, Rory.” The words rumble in his chest, betraying how close he is to breaking. “But you’re making it fucking impossible.”

“Then don’t.” I tilt up until our lips brush—just a whisper, not a kiss.

His teeth sink into his lower lip, like he’s still fighting something—until he isn’t.

Then he pulls me against him, his mouth crashing down on mine with a desperation that leaves me breathless. His lips move against mine, demanding—until I’m melting into him. The slow, deliberate slide of his tongue leaves no room for doubt, no space for second thoughts.

His lips trail down my neck, finding that sensitive spot just beneath my ear. I gasp. It’s ridiculous how cliché this is—like some overdone scene from a trashy romance novel—but damn it if it doesn’t work. I let my head fall back as his lips move lower.

I push him back against the window, my fingers trail up to his face, gently scratching at the stubble dusting his jawline. His breath hitches as my nails lightly graze his skin, and his eyes flutter shut slowly. His jaw tightens in restrained pleasure. My soft, teasing touch is driving him crazy. The way his breath falters, how he exhales through clenched restraint, sends warmth blooming between my hips. Knowing I can unravel him like this—it’s intoxicating in all the right ways.

“You have no clue what you do to me,” he murmurs, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to my palm—the same hand that had just traced the rough stubble on his jaw.

His eyes stay locked on mine as his lips brush against my skin, the contact impossibly soft. More intimate than I’d expected. “You’re going to undo me, Rory,” he murmurs against my palm.

He lifts me with ease and carries me to the bed. I lean into him, feeling the heat of his body seeping into my skin. He lowers me onto the bed gently despite the fire in his eyes.

He pulls back, tugging his t-shirt over his head with one hand, revealing his toned chest.

Holy hell.

My eyes trace over the firm ridges of muscle, the way his skin stretches taut over strength built from years of hard work. A dusting of dark hair trails down the center of his torso, drawing my gaze lower, making my mouth go dry.

The metal clinks as he works the buckle free. When his hands pause at his waistband, I drag my gaze up to find him watching me. I don’t know what undoes me more—the way he looks or the way he’s looking at me.

“Rory, I…” he begins, his voice hushed and strained, like it’s taking everything in him to say the words. “I haven’t been with anyone for a while. I’m… afraid I’ll hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you…”

This big, strong man, who could probably crush me with one hand, is standing here, half-naked, fretting over me.

Sir.

Read the room. I’m naked. On your bed. Act accordingly.

My hands slide down his abs before he finishes his sentence, hooking my fingers into the waistband of his pants.

His breath hitches.

I tug them down in one smooth motion, baring him completely.

And damn.

He wasn’t exaggerating.

His cock is massive, thick and veiny, standing proud against his stomach. I freeze, my breath catching as my gaze lingers. His eyes search mine, bracing for my exit.

“Rory, this isn’t what I meant,” he starts, his voice tight, but the words falter as I lean forward, swirling my tongue around the tip, tasting the salty bead of his pre-cum. His whole body tenses, thighs turning to steel under my palms.

I glance up at him, my tongue still teasing the sensitive tip, and see the war playing out in his dark eyes—need battling restraint. His chest heaves, his breath ragged, but instead of pulling away, his hand comes up, cupping my chin with a touch so gentle it almost feels like hesitation. Like he’s not sure whether to stop me or surrender completely.

I take him deeper into my mouth, my lips glide over the heated length, savouring the smoothness and the way his body tenses beneath my touch. My hand wraps around the base, stroking in time with the movements of my tongue. The weight of him on my tongue, the way he fills my mouth— it’s intoxicating. His hands find my hair, gentle despite his trembling, as I take him deeper.

“Fuck, Rory,” he grits out.

The sound he makes – half growl, half plea drives me crazy. I hollow my cheeks, wrapping my hand around what I can’t fit, and his control splinters. His hips twitch, but he holds himself back. A curse slips from his lips as his head falls back, exposing the taut lines of his neck.

“Matéo…” I murmur against him, my voice breathless and filled with need. Heat pools between my legs, a slick ache building inside me. I want to see him fall apart, to hear him cry out my name.

His eyes snap open at my words, wild and burning with intensity. “Rory,” he pants, “you need to stop. I’m going to” his voice strained, his hands trembling as he grips my hair tighter.

I pull back just enough to meet his feral stare. “Then let go,” I challenge, my voice softening with my own need.

His chest heaves as he looks down at me, pupils blown wide with need. He reaches down, his hand cupping my face, his mouth claiming mine in a kiss that’s all heat and desperation.

“You,” he growls against my lips, spinning us so my back hits the mattress. His weight pins me down, solid and demanding, but his touch remains careful as he brackets my body with his arms. “You’re driving me crazy.”

“That’s the idea,” I breathe, nipping at his bottom lip.

“Rory, if we do this…” He swallows hard, muscles tensing beneath my wandering hands. “You’ve got to tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs against my lips.

I nod, my breath coming in harsh gasps as he shifts above me, his solid warmth enveloping me. “I won’t let you hurt me,” I whisper, though if it does hurt a little, chances are I’m going to like it.

“He groans, fumbling for the nightstand and grabbing a condom. “Safety first,” he mutters, his voice strained, each breath ragged as he struggles to keep himself in check.

He pauses, his eyes locking onto mine, raw and vulnerable. The intensity of his gaze hits me like a tidal wave—the want, the need, the barely restrained hunger. “Are you ready?”.

I push against his chest, toppling him back onto the bed with a sly smile. “Yes,” I breathe, my voice trembling with anticipation. “And you? You just sit there and enjoy the show.”

His eyes widen in surprise, a low laugh escaping him as he props himself up on his elbows, watching me with a mix of curiosity and desire. “Rory, what—?”

I cut him off with a teasing smile, tucking a pillow to prop behind his back. Without breaking eye contact, I straddle him, positioning myself over his hips, feeling his hardness pressing against my soaked folds. The muscles in his chest tense, his breath catching as he watches me, eyes fixed on the place where our bodies are about to connect.

“Fuck…” he murmurs, his voice thick with awe and heat.

That’s what we’re trying to do, sir.

“Shh,” I whisper, placing a finger over his lips, my heart pounding as I guide the broad head of his cock to my entrance. “Just relax, Matéo.”

His hands grip my thighs, fingers digging into my skin as I begin to lower myself onto him, inch by inch. The stretch is wild, almost too much, but it’s the kind of intense that fries my brain in the best way possible. “Holy hell,” I mutter, set on taking all of him. He’s watching me with this wide-eyed look of awe and restraint, his jaw clenched tight, every muscle in his body straining as I sink, his cock filling me, stretching me in a way that’s half-pain, half-ecstasy, making me want to both pull away and sink deeper.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groans, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment as he tries to control himself, I could feel his hips twitching.

I can’t speak, can barely breathe. He’s overwhelming, stretching me deliciously in ways I didn’t know were possible. My hands clutch at his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin as I gasp for air. My body is trembling as I adjust to the sheer size of him.

“You okay?” he asks, checking on me.

“Yeah, I’m good,” I manage to gasp out, my voice shaky, but there’s a breathless laugh bubbling up inside me because, God, I’ve never felt anything like this. It’s too much and not enough, and I want more, so much more.

He lets out a ragged breath, his hands tightening on my hips as he tries to keep still, to let me set the pace. But I can feel him straining beneath me, every muscle in his body coiled tight, his eyes fixed on me like I’m his whole damn world.

“Rory, I—”

“Shh,” I whisper again, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his lips, feeling his breath hitch as I start to move, my hips rocking against his in a slow, deliberate rhythm that has us both gasping.

He groans, his hips surging up to meet mine as I move, the friction and heat between us almost unbearable. I can feel every inch of him inside me, stretching me, filling me, his cock sliding in and out of me in a rhythm that’s sweet and maddening.

“You’re unreal,” he breathes, his voice a low, reverent whisper as he looks up at me, his eyes filled with something so raw and intense it steals my air.

The words send a thrill through me, a rush of heat and desire that makes my movements more urgent, more frantic. I start to ride him harder, my hips lifting and falling in an almost wild rhythm, the pleasure building with each thrust, each delicious drag of his cock inside me.

His hands slide up my back, one slipping into my hair, the other gripping my waist as he watches me with a look of pure hunger. I can see the effort it’s taking him to hold back, to let me set the pace, but I don’t want him to hold back. I want to see him lose control. I want to see him come apart.

But I’m the one who loses the battle, his restraint unwavering as he lets me take what I need. “Matéo…” I whimper, my voice trembling as I ride him faster, desperately chasing that elusive edge. He dips his head, his mouth capturing one of my nipples while his fingers tease the other, sending a jolt of pleasure through me that makes my muscles clench tighter around him. “Matéo, not yet,” I gasp, my words a breathless plea.

But he knows better. He’s reading every moan, every shiver with an instinct that has me unravelling in his hands. His fingers pinch my nipple harder than I expect, and I shatter, the intensity of my orgasm ripping through me like a tidal wave. I cry out, but instead of slowing down, he grips my hips firmly as he controls the rhythm, stretching the bliss, unbearable.

He sucks on my nipple, harder, and the pleasure shoots through me like a lightning strike. My body moves on instinct, riding him faster, our pace turning wild and desperate. His hands and lips are pushing me to the brink over and over, each wave of pleasure crashing into the next until I’m drowning in sensation, completely undone. One climax after another, relentless, merciless.

But I’m not done. His touches awaken my greedy and needy little traitor of a coochie. “Faster,” I whisper, my voice a breathless plea as I lean down, my lips brushing against his ear. My head falls back as stars burst behind my eyes as Matéo drives deeper. Each thrust steals my breath, my world narrowing to the sharp dig of his fingers on my hips and the delicious burn of him inside me.

“Look at me,” he commands, voice rough with need. When I meet his gaze, the raw hunger there makes me clench even tighter around him. His rhythm falters, a broken sound escaping his throat.

His eyes lock with mine, dark and desperate, as if I’m the only anchor in his storm. His touch is tender, his rhythm brutal—a contradiction that wrecks me.

“Rory…” he chokes out, his eyes wild as he looks up at me, his face flushed with effort and need.

I cradle his face in my hands, thumbs catching on the salt of his skin. “Fuck me, Matéo.”

The words are his undoing, and with a guttural sound, he buries himself deep inside me, his body shuddering as he comes, the hot rush of his release sending me spiralling over the edge with him. I cry out, my nails digging into his shoulders as I come apart, the pleasure washing over me in waves, so intense it’s almost blinding.

For a moment, we’re both lost, our bodies tangled together, our breaths mingling as we ride out the aftershocks of our release.

Slowly, the world comes back into focus, and I find myself lying on top of him, our bodies still joined, our hearts pounding in sync.

He’s looking at me like he’s just run a marathon, his eyes dark and dazed, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. “You’re incredible,” he murmurs, as he reaches up to brush a strand of hair away from my face.

I smile, my breath still coming in ragged gasps as I lean down to press a soft kiss to his lips, my heart doing a dumb flip, feeling too close to happy. “So are you,” I whisper, “So fucking incredible.”

---

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8 Friends, benefit, and a side of complication

My body still hums with the intensity of what just happened, every nerve tingles like it’s been brushed with live wires. I stumble to the bathroom and quickly clean myself up. Matéo’s gaze tracks me like a spotlight, and my skin prickles like it knows too much.

The urge to bolt hits hard, a clawing need for air before I drown in this… whatever this is. Too much, too close, too fast. I reach for his t-shirt, but Matéo’s hand catches my wrist, holding me in place.

“Wait, what are you doing? Where are you going?” he asks, almost pleading.

I blink, the words sinking in, guilt flaring in my chest. I didn’t want to make it weird, but I don’t know how to process what just happened, I don’t know how to make sense of it. I shrug, trying to keep things light, to play it off. “Just, y’know, stretching my legs.”

“What just happened?” he presses, still holding my wrist like I’ll vanish, which I probably would, if my legs aren’t wobbly as a newborn foal.

“Not everything needs a post-game analysis,” I say, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. I slip his t-shirt over my head, covering myself while I search for my dress.

“Did you… Regret it?” His brow furrows, concern etched deep.

I let out a shaky breath, leaning in to brush a soft kiss against his forehead. “No, Matéo. Not at all. I’m happy it happened.”

“Then stay,” he pleads, tugging me back toward the bed.

I hesitate. I really do. But then he looks at me with those damn eyes, and suddenly I’m toast. I lie next to him and let his arms wrap me tight, his heartbeat steady against my back. It feels too safe, too good.

“Isn’t this what guys want? End it without any awkward conversations or fake promises?” I mutter.

He props himself instantly on one arm, turning my face to his, almost pissed.

“Did I treat you like other guys, Rory?” His words are pointed, his frustration simmering beneath the surface.

“No,” I admit. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here.”

His expression softens, the frustration fading into something warmer, something that tightens my chest. “I’d regret it, Rory. I’d regret it if you left thinking this meant nothing. I know we just met, and it might sound like a load of bullshit, but I’m not that guy. I don’t fuck and forget. And I sure as hell won’t forget this.”

“So what then? We fuck and become friends?” The words come out sharper than I meant.

“At least stay for lunch,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over my skin like he’s tracing a promise. “And let me drive you home.”

I arch a brow. “Lunch, a ride… are you always this generous after rocking someone’s world?”

He smirks, leaning closer. “Only when I want an encore.”

“I can handle myself,” I shoot back, but there’s no heat behind it. Mostly because I’m melting.

“I know,” he says. His hand slides to my cheek, fingers warm, voice even warmer. “But maybe I just like the excuse to keep you a little longer.”

Damn him. That move should be illegal. It make my heart do that stupid flip thing, and I hate how good it feels.

I roll my eyes—barely. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

“And you’re lucky I don’t mind a fight.”

I lean into his touch with a sigh that gives me away.

“Wait—” His voice tightens, cautious. “Is there someone else? A boyfriend?” He pulls away from me, just slightly.

For heaven’s sake, and he’s only thinking to ask me that now?

“Do I seem like the type to cheat?”

“No! Shit, that’s not—” He stumbles, flustered. “I didn’t mean that!”

“There hasn’t been anyone for a while now,” I mutter, then smirk. “My dry spell’s been so long it turned predatory, as you probably have noticed.” A not-so-subtle nod to the beautiful chaos we just created.

“Good,” he breathes. “And I need you to know that you’re not some passing thing to me”

His words hang between us, thick with meaning. I meet his gaze, searching, daring him to prove it. Then I grab the hem of my shirt and tug it over my head, letting it fall behind me. A challenge or an offering—I’m not sure which. I don’t even know why I did that.

But Matéo does. “You’re fucking perfect, Rory.”

He kisses my shoulder, soft and gentle, but there’s nothing sweet about the way his mouth moves lower. His lips find my breast, each warm pull sending a wave of heat spiralling through me. His other hand works my neglected nipple, firm and sure, like he’s memorized my body in another life.

And weirdly, it’s comforting.

We stay like that, suspended in a quiet, pulsing stillness. I run my fingers through his hair, slow and absentminded, nails grazing his scalp. He hums against my skin, low and content, like he could stay here forever.

Honestly… maybe I could too.

Exhaustion tugs at me, my body too sore and spent to move. Matéo’s arm curls around my waist, hand resting over my stomach as he pulls me in. His chest against my back, his breath warm at my neck. I wince as a dull ache pulses through me, a reminder of how much he gave—and took—from me. My muscles are trembling, tender, but it’s the kind of soreness I’d happily suffer again.

His fingers trace idle patterns over my skin, soothing. I feel the tension ebbing away, my mind slipping into that hazy place between consciousness and sleep. I let out a sigh, contentment mingling with the remnants of pleasure, my body melting into the mattress.

“You okay?” He whispers.

“Yeah,” I breathe, my lips curving into a sleepy smile. “Just sore. The best kind.”

He chuckles softly, his lips brushing against my shoulder in a ghost of a kiss. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” I mumble, sleep pulling me under. “It was worth it.”

His arm tightening around me as he shifts his weight, carefully rolling me onto my side so that he’s half-covering me, shielding me from the world. His body is warm and solid against mine, a protective cocoon that makes me feel strangely safe, like I could drift off right here, wrapped in his heat, and nothing bad could ever touch me again.

We melt into sleep, tangled together. His arm was a heavy, comforting weight over my waist, his leg hooked over mine, anchoring me in place. And for the first time in a long, long time, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

But like any form of comfort in my life, it doesn’t last long.

I’m jolted awake by a voice that pierces the fog of sleep like a siren. “Yoohoo, sleepyhead! Wakey wakey!”

“Benny, what the hell?” Matéo’s warmth vanishes as he sits up, exposing me to the cool air and the mortifying realization that we’re not alone.

“Oh my god!” The intruder’s theatrical gasp would be funny if I wasn’t frantically reaching for the sheet. “My baby brother has someone in his bed! I’m so, so sorry, lovebirds, we didn’t mean to intrude!”

I blink, disoriented and still half-asleep, as I try to process what’s happening.

“Rory?!”

I freeze, my heart leaping into my throat as my name rings out in stereo. I turn my head just enough to see two familiar faces peeking around the doorframe—Eric and Benny, my boss and his boyfriend, both staring with a mix of shock and unbridled glee.

Oh hell no. This can’t be happening.

Heat floods my cheeks as I take in how this must look: me lying in bed, naked, Matéo sitting beside me with his hair a tousled mess, his chest bare, and the sheet barely covering us. I’m supposed to be stealthy, discreet—not getting caught in bed by half of my professional circle.

“Eric? Benny?” I squeak, fighting the urge to vanish into the mattress.

Benny’s eyes are as wide as saucers. “Rory?… I didn’t know you were… friendly with my baby brother.”

“Friendly?” Eric fans himself, all Broadway drama. “Benny darling, this looks like a whole new level of friendly!”

Matéo scrubs a hand over his face, exasperated in a way that says this isn’t new for him. “Can we get a damn minute? It’s not what you think,” he grits out, shooting his brother, who dares to look sheepish, a glare that has all the warmth of a winter storm.

Not what they think? Buddy, we’re naked and tangled—what else can this be look like?

I glance between them, trying to process this new information. “Hold up, Benny is your brother? You didn’t think to mention that, Matéo?”

“Oops, my bad!” Benny throws his hands up in mock surrender, the grin on his face nothing short of mischievous. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. But, you know, you left the door unlocked, and I thought, ‘Why not say hi?’ Didn’t expect… this.” He waves at the bed.

I’m split between cackling and diving under the covers. This is absurd—caught by them, of all people. I glance at Matéo, his mouth twitching, fighting a smirk despite still death-glaring his brother.

“Uh, maybe I should…” I begin, attempting to slip out of bed, but Matéo stops me, holding my arm ever so gently.

“Don’t,” he says softly, his eyes meeting mine with a look almost pleading. “Stay.”

Eric swoops in, shattering the vibe. “We’ll leave you two lovebirds alone,” he chirps, yanking Benny toward the door.

“By the way, Rory, you look gorgeous! Absolutely glowing,” Eric calls over his shoulder with a playful wink.

“Oh my god, she is glowing!” Benny chimes in, teasing. “Is that Orgasmic Blush Number 5?”

Classic Benny.

I roll my eyes, trying to mask my mortification. Fine, if we’re doing this… “I’ll DM you the shade, guys.”

As the door clicks shut behind them, silence fills the room. Matéo exhales loudly, flopping back onto the bed, his arm draped over his face. I stare up at the ceiling, my heart still racing.

“Well, that was… something,” I mutter, my voice shaky with a nervous laugh.

Matéo peeks at me from beneath his arm, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. My brother has impeccable timing.”

“And my boss,” I add with a snort. “Perfect. Just perfect.”

He chuckles, reaching for my hand beneath the sheets. “You’re not mad?”

I shake my head, still feeling the heat in my cheeks. “Nah, just wanna die a little. And Benny is your brother?”

He grins, pulling me closer. “Yeah, somehow it slipped my mind to mention him. It’s not exactly pillow-talk material.”

I bury my face in his chest, half-laughing, half-groaning. “The thing is, Eric has a strict rule for no hooking up with clients. But technically, we didn’t go home together after my shift, so you’re not a client. Loophole, right?”

His laughter rumbles through his chest. “Good point. But don’t stress about it, okay? It’s Benny’s teasing you need to worry about.”

“Oh mon dieu, you’re right. He’s going to be unbearable after this,” I say, shuddering at the thought. I can already picture his smug grin.

Matéo tilts my chin up, brushing a stray lock of hair from my face. “I’ll take the heat with you.”

“Oh? You think you can handle Benny and Eric’s tag-team roast? That’s brave.”

“Brave, huh? Guess I’ll have to prove it to you.”

“Not sure if I should feel relieved or terrified.”

He leans in, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “You don’t have to worry. Not about them, not about us.”

9 I’m not your Vivian Ward

The dining room is… how do I say this without sounding poor… bigger than my dad’s entire house. Wide windows, soft sunlight, minimalist everything. Curated, designed, and placed with a purpose and taste. Not a single thing out of place.

Except, obviously, me.

And then there’s Benny and Éric’s brunch spread, beautifully arranged on a massive live-edge maple dining table. The whole thing looks like it was 3D-printed straight from Pinterest. Slightly overkill. Completely impressive. Totally Bennéric.

I slide into the seat next to Matéo as Benny and Éric settle across from us, grinning like they just stumbled onto the gossip of the century.

“Well, well, well. Rory,” Benny says, leaning forward, with his sly eyes sparkling. “Never thought I’d see you here. Or anyone here, honestly.”

I raise an eyebrow. “How so?”

Benny sighs, full soap-opera mode. “My dear brother is known for his… reclusive tendencies. His homes have always been a no-visitors zone.”

Éric waves his hand, mock offended. “When he moved in here not long ago, we had to invite ourselves. Us, imagine!”

“But here you are,” Benny grins, “breaking all the rules.”

Matéo rolls his eyes, clearly already regretting this lunch. “You’re both being ridiculous.

Benny lowers his voice to a whisper, eyes twinkling. “But seriously, darling. You okay? I hope he didn’t… you know… hurt you. Considering…” His gaze flicks to Matéo, fake concern cranked to eleven.

Matéo groans. “I’m right here. I can hear you.”

Benny cackles, clearly loving the squirm. “Matéo, we love you,” Benny replies, unbothered, “but Rory is our favorite bartender. So… priorities.”

I shake my head, fighting a smile. “I’m fine, guys. And for the record, we didn’t leave Serendipity together last night.”

Éric clutches his chest. “Oh, honey, you’re not in trouble. If anything, this is the most excitement Serendipity’s seen in years!”

Matéo drags a hand down his face. “Can we please eat and talk about something else?”

Benny winks at me. “Fine, we’ll behave. For now.”

---

As we dig into the spread—charcuterie, roasted vegetables, salads that smell like they’ve been blessed by Canadian hottest chef—Chef Chuck Hughes, I glance over at Nancy. He’s belly-up in the living room, snoring like a chainsaw through this circus. Tongue out, paws twitching. Living his best life while mine’s an HR violation in progress.

Benny and Éric launch into stories about Serendipity antics. Matéo stays quiet, watching with a small smile. I catch his eye and raise a brow.

“Just enjoying the show,” he murmurs. “You guys are… a lot.”

“Guilty as charged,” Benny says, raising his mimosa in salute. “But enough about us. Tell Rory about your big event, Matéo.”

Matéo’s smile dips slightly as he sets his glass down. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Oh, don’t be modest,” Benny cuts in. “It’s huge, Rory. A game changer, I tell you that.”

I glance at Matéo, intrigued. “Go on.”

He sighs. “I’m opening a 20-room all-inclusive mountain auberge. The idea is to help people disconnect, immerse themselves in nature in a whole different set. It’s been a dream of mine.”

“That’s awesome!” I say—and I mean it.

He shrugs. Éric, of course, jumps in. “Auberge? Brother! Don’t downplay it. It’s an all-inclusive resort in the mountain with gourmet everything. The first in Québec.”

“Tell her about the private lakes, baby brother,” Benny adds. “And the Swedish spa. And the stargazing observatory. And the six mountains surrounding it plus a waterfall. And the fact you bullied the Quebec government into letting you build near a national park.”

“Wow!” I say, thoroughly impressed.

“And,” Éric says, bouncing in his chair, “he’s hosting the industry’s annual event there.”

“Éric,” Matéo warns.

“Oh please, it’s not a secret. It’s the Met Gala for architects.”

I glance back at Matéo, amused. “That sounds… intense.”

He shrugs. “It’s mostly a bunch of people flexing. Not really my scene.”

“You’ve never liked the big-boy table,” Benny teases, though there’s a hint of sympathy in his tone. “But this is your dream project, Matéo. You should be proud.”

There’s a pause, and I reach out to squeeze his arm. “I’m sure the place is amazing.”

“Thanks, Rory.”

“Besides,” Éric adds, winking at me, “Matéo hired the best event organizer to make sure it doesn’t turn into a snooze fest.”

Benny nods enthusiastically. “Exactly. Us.”

Matéo groans, though there’s a smile tugging at his lips. “God help me.

Just as I take a bite of roasted pepper, Benny gasps, his eyes lighting up as he grabs Éric’s arm. Knowing him, he just got an idea for a shenanigan. “Éric! I’ve got it!”

Éric raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “What is it, darling?”

Benny turns to Matéo, his grin wide and mischievous. “Matéo, you should take Rory to the event! She’d keep you sane and shut the snobs down.. It’s perfect—like Pretty Woman!”

See, I told you.

“That’s brilliant, darling! Show up with Rory on your arm, and you’ll be the talk of the event.” Éric of course, on board with this idea.

“Uh, excuse me?” It took me a minute to process this stupid idea.

Matéo looks equally stunned. “Wait, what? Take Rory? To the event?”

Benny nods enthusiastically. “Think about it! Rory’s gorgeous, charming, and won’t put up with anyone’s nonsense. You’d have your own personal Vivian Ward.”

For crying out loud, he’d better not be serious.

“Whoa, whoa, hold on a minute,” I say, holding up my hands trying to stop this idea from spiralling into action. “Did you just compare me to Vivian Ward?”

Benny blinks, his enthusiasm waning as he looks at me with a puzzled expression. “I mean, it was just… a glamorous transformation thing, darling. Not—…”

“Vivian Ward is a hooker, Benny. And spoiler alert—I’m not!”

The room goes dead quiet. Even Nancy stops snoring.

Benny’s smile falters as he realizes the gravity of his idea. “Oh my God, Rory,” Benny gasps. “That’s not what I meant—really.”

Matéo’s expression darkens, his gaze snapping to his brother and Éric with something close to anger. “Yeah, that was a shitty comparison, guys.”

Benny and Éric exchange a glance, then turn to me, looking sheepish.

“Rory, darling,” Benny starts, rubbing the back of his neck, “We really didn’t mean to upset you. It was just a silly suggestion. We know you’re not a Vivian Ward, and that was a terrible comparison. My bad.”

“And you really think I’m the one who can keep Matéo from ‘acting out’ at some architect gala?”

Matéo scoffs, stabbing his fork into his food. “I don’t act out. I just don’t kiss ass.”

Éric chimes in, unfazed. “You’d be doing the industry a public service, Rory.”

I chuckle, glancing between them. “It’s tempting, I admit. But I’m not anyone’s plus-one-for-hire.”

Benny raises his hands in mock surrender. “We’d never imply that! But hey, if it helps with those pesky debts…”

Matéo shoots him a look. “She said no. And you think I can’t handle this event without bribing someone to babysit me?”

“I’m just saying that it will be mutually beneficial for both of you,” Benny shrugs. “Especially with Alyssa there.”

My fork pauses mid-air. “Alyssa?”

Éric leans forward, eyes wide. “Alyssa’s his ex—the one who didn’t just leave him but went off with his biggest rival in architecture. Soap opera, but with blueprints.”

“Wow.” I blink. “Didn’t know architects got so much drama, I thought they are reasonable people.”

“They do,” Benny says with a smirk. “Which is why having you there would make things a lot less awkward.”

Matéo shoots him a dark look, clearly unimpressed with his brother’s logic. “This isn’t about Alyssa.”

Benny waves him off. “Come on, Matéo. Don’t be dramatic.” He turns to me with a more subdued grin. “Rory, think of it as a mini-vacation, a little getaway at Quebec’s first luxury mountain resort.”

“A getaway that involves pretending to be someone I’m not so Matéo doesn’t feel awkward around his ex? Hard pass.”

Éric sighs, eyes wide with earnestness. “We didn’t mean it like that, darling. You’re a breath of fresh air. You’d keep him grounded. And, well, the fact that you’re gorgeous doesn’t hurt either.”

I roll my eyes, fighting a smile. “Nice try, but my answer still no, even with flattery.”

Benny places a hand over his heart, sighing dramatically. “Listen, you, my gorgeous but hard-headead redhead, need a break, badly. You deserve one. Matéo would pay well, and that could ease some of that burden you’re carrying, no?”

I glance at Matéo, who’s been quiet, he’s leaning on his chair with his arms folded. “Don’t push it, Benny.”

Benny shrugs, unbothered. “It’s not the worst idea, especially with Alyssa and Guillaume around.” He pauses, frowning.“I still can’t wrap my head around it, Guillaume was your friend, for God’s sake! How could they do that to you?”

He reaches for Éric’s hand dramatically. “Promise me you’ll make sure I don’t kill them when I see them.”

Éric pats his hand reassuringly. “Don’t worry, darling. I’ll make sure of it,” he says sweetly before his expression turns deadly serious. “Because if you don’t, I might just beat you to it.”

Matéo rolls his eyes, though I swear he’s secretly enjoying the drama. “Good grief, you two,”.

I shift uncomfortably, not really wanting to dig into Matéo’s ex drama. “Look, it sounds fun, really. I know I’m not exactly in the tax bracket to turn down easy cash, but being someone’s paid plus-one? Not my thing. And honestly, his awkward drama isn’t my problem. I’m sure he has no problem handle everything all by himself.”

Éric leans back, giving me a knowing look. “Exactly why we think you should come. No bullshit. All heart.”

I sigh, these two don’t take No as an answer. “And what do you think, Matéo? Do you really need someone to hold your hand through this event?”

“No, I don’t. And I will never ask you to do something you don’t want.”

“Good,” I say with a small smile. “I wouldn’t want to be your emotional crutch.”

He nods. “Noted.”

Éric claps, breaking the tension. “Alright, alright. Let’s just eat. But Rory, just think about it, darling.” He says while passing a bowl of fresh cut baguette.

Matéo leans closer, whispering, “Don’t think about it. But thanks for not running.”

I grin. “You’re welcome.”

10 Homeless

As we drive back to my place, Matéo keeps glancing at me, his eyes flicking between the road and my face, checking to see if I’m still okay.

“I’m sorry about the whole ‘Pretty Woman’ idea. My brother can be… well, let’s just say ‘creative.’” He finally breaks the silence.

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, I know Benny. And Eric… They are a match made in chaos heaven.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “You handled it pretty well, though.”

“Years of bartending at Serendipity,” I shoot back with a smug. “You get used to handling weird situations.” And people, I think but don’t add.

“Still, thanks for not storming out. They meant well, in their own twisted way.” His fingers drum impatiently on the steering wheel.

“It’s fine. And besides, it’s kind of flattering they think I could save you from social disaster.”

“Oh, trust me,” he said dryly, “I’m beyond saving.”

I laughed, the sound filling the car, and for a moment, everything felt light and easy. But as we pulled up to my street, I spotted the familiar car parked out front, my asshole half-brother Robie’s car—sits out front like a bad omen, sucking the air from my lungs.

I zip my jacket to my chin, reflex kicking in, like armor against whatever’s coming.

Matéo notices, his eyes dart to the car and back to me, searching for something I’m not willing to reveal. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, just wasn’t expecting company, that’s all.” I reply, forcing a casual tone while my pulse hammers in my temples.

Matéo pulls into a parking space and turns off the engine before I can protest. You don’t have to walk me,” I blurt. “I’m good. Really.”

“I’m coming with you,” he says, unbuckling his seatbelt with a finality that leaves no room for argument. It’s as if he senses the underlying tension that the presence of that car brings.

I cringe. This is not how I wanted the day to end— exposed in my vulnerable moment, with all my family’s ugliness on display.

My heart sinks as I catch sight of Karine, Robbie’s wife, standing at the doorway. She tosses a suitcase onto the sidewalk—my suitcase with vicious satisfaction written across her face.

That bitch.

“Matéo, really, it’s fine. You don’t have to—” I start, but he’s already out of the car. He opens the car door for me, and I want to crawl under a rock. I don’t know what I expected today, but it definitely wasn’t this public humiliation with him watching.

“It’s okay Rory. Let me walk you to your door.” he says.

I swallow hard, glancing back at him, shame burning behind my eyes. “You really don’t have to meet my dysfunctional family tonight.” Or ever. You don’t need to see this part of me.

“Too late for that.” He replies with a smile.

We walk up to the house together, and Karine’s hostile eyes lock onto us like a hawk spotting prey. “Well, well, if it isn’t the bastard daughter,” she sneers, tossing another bag onto the sidewalk.

I freeze, my heart slamming against my ribs so hard it feels like it might shatter them. The world narrows to a pinpoint. “Karine, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” I choke, scrambling for control

“You’ve got to go, bitch! This place is for sale, and you’re squatting. It’s time to get the fuck out.”

The words hit like a slap, my skin burning under Matéo’s gaze. I can feel him watching, but I can’t—won’t—look at him. Not now. Not when I’m this raw, this exposed, this fucking small. The weight of his witness makes this unbearable. “Robbie said I could stay until Monday,” I manage, my voice barely more than a whisper, each word dragged out of me like it’s costing a piece of my soul.

“Time’s up,” she snaps, satisfaction gleaming in her eyes. “He said you had till Monday to pack up your shit and leave, not to keep living here like some pathetic squatter.”

The accusation slices through me, and I feel something inside crack, splitting open under the weight of everything I’ve tried to hold together for so long. This isn’t just about space or property—it’s a brutal reminder of how little I matter, of how I’ve never really belonged anywhere. The air around me feels too thick, like I’m suffocating under the weight of all the rejection, all the abandonment I’ve buried deep.

“Squatter?” The word comes out like a snarl, my voice trembling with all the pain, rage, and desperation I’ve been choking on for years. “I’m the one who’s been paying the damn mortgage for years!” My hands ball into fists at my sides. “I’m the one who took care of Mom when she was dying while your useless husband couldn’t even be bothered to pick up the phone! Where the hell was he, huh?”. My chest heaves, tears burning behind my eyes. “He didn’t even come to her funeral, Karine! He never shows up. He didn’t call. He didn’t do shit!”

Years of carefully constructed walls begin to crumble, and the words keep spilling out of me like blood from a wound. “So don’t you dare stand there and say I don’t belong. I was the one who stayed. I was the one who did everything after Robbie walked out. I gave everything I had left for her, even after how she treated me, because I knew she had nobody but me—not even her precious fucking son would care.” The last words taste bitter on my tongue.

Karine’s face twists with rage, her perfect makeup contorting with her sneer, but I don’t stop. “You were not there when she cried because she couldn’t remember who I was half the time, asking about why her son hadn’t come to pick her up.” My voice drops, raw with remembered pain. “You never saw her fighting to breathe. You didn’t hold her hand when she begged for it to end. You didn’t watch her die!”

My voice is shredded, each word scraping against the raw edges of my throat. “I did that. Me. Not Robbie. He was too busy living his perfect life to give a damn about the woman who raised him.” I gesture wildly at the house behind her, my childhood prison and only home. “And now you toss me out like I’m the one who ditched her?”

The door flies open, my deadbeat half brother Robie strutting out with his smug smirk, making my stomach lurch, “What’s all the noise?” he drawls, his eyes narrowing when he sees me. “Oh, if it isn’t my dear little sister, Rory, causing trouble again.” The way he says ‘sister’ makes it sound like a slur.

My throat tightens. “Robie—”

He cuts me off with a wave of his hand. “Save it, Rory. We all know your little act. You cry, you play the victim, and everyone’s supposed to feel sorry for you. But let’s not forget who really owns this house, huh?” He gestures grandly. “Mom and dad left it to me, the legit child. So, get the fuck out of!”.

“Legit kid? You’re a legit coward, Robie”

The words sting and he keeps going. “You’re nothing but dad’s side piece’s kid. The reject dad dumped on us ’cause your mom didn’t want you.”

The truth lands like a bomb, suffocating and poisonous. And the worst part? He’s right. Technically, legally, he’s right. I don’t belong here. I never have.

Matéo put his hand gently on my lower back, but even his presence isn’t enough to stop the tears welling in my eyes or the raw, aching wound Robie’s words have ripped open.

Robie’s face twists, bitterness radiating from him like a toxic cloud as he leans in, close enough that I can see the tiny flecks of gold in his eyes—just like our father’s. “You got me kicked out, remember? Made me the outcast while you played saint.” His breath sours my skin.

“And why the hell should I take care of Mom? Or pay a single cent toward the mortgage of this house? or her fuckin’ debts? You’re the one who pushed her over the edge. You’re the reason she ended up like that.”

His finger jabs toward my face. “Her little problem started the day you came into our lives. It’s all your fault, Rory.”

I stagger back like he’s slapped me. “Robie, you—” My voice breaks, cracked and raw. “Don’t you dare put that on me.”

The accusations hit like hammer blows, but he’s wrong. I know he’s wrong. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

Karine storms back out, clutching another bag. She hurls it at my feet, my private shit; undies, journals, vibrators, keepsakes—spilling across the grimy Quebec City sidewalk.

“Here’s the rest of your shit!” she snarls, “you little slut!.”

My stomach twists with humiliation, blood rushing to my face as I crouch down, scrambling to hide my life from Matéo’s eyes.

“You got Robie kicked out, remember?” Karine sneers. “Pretending to be this innocent, sweet sister, while you were really just flirting and leading him on like a desperate little whore. Just like your real mother.”

Her words slap, stealing my breath, my brain reeling from her vile lies. “What the fuck are you on?” I snap. “I never—”

Robie steps up, his eyes glinting with sick triumph, making my skin crawl. “That’s right,” he sneers—taunting. “Dad booted me like I was a creep, but you know what you did. You played the victim so well, but you wanted it. You wanted me to look at you. You wanted me to notice you.”

“Enough,” Matéo cuts in, his voice steady but edged with steel, making Karine and Robie flinch. “You don’t get to treat her like this”.

“That’s bullshit, and you’re disgusting Robie!,” I choke out, my voice shaking as I try to hold back the tears that are threatening to spill. “I was fucking eleven, Robie! I was just a kid!”

But he just sneers, a twisted smile curling his lips as he brushes off my pain like it’s nothing, like I’m nothing. “Yeah, well, you sure didn’t act like it!”

Matéo, who had been trying to keep the peace, suddenly snaps. His face darkens, and before I can say anything, he strides forward and shoves Robie hard, sending him crashing into the doorframe.

“You piece of shit!” Matéo’s growls, vibrating with barely controlled fury. He towers over Robie, his fists clenched, seconds away from losing it. Hot as hell and terrifying.

“Hey, man, back off! This is none of your fucking business,” Robbie sputters, trying to regain his footing.

“It is now,” Matéo growls. He steps closer, his body taut with barely contained rage, every inch of him radiating a lethal intensity that makes Robie instinctively take a step back, fear flashing across his face. “You don’t pin this on her. Not today. Not ever. Got it?”

Robie opens his mouth, but Matéo cuts him off. “You don’t get to rewrite history to justify your pathetic existence,” he spits. “You’re nothing but a coward. A fucking coward.”

His words are like a whip, each one lashing out with a ferocity that makes the air around us thrum with tension.

“Matéo,” I whisper, my voice breaking, but he’s too far gone, too wrapped up in his anger to hear me. His eyes meet mine for a split second, the concern and protectiveness blazing through the storm of his rage, but then he’s back on Robie with his body coiled like a spring ready to snap.

“You’re done here,” he says, his voice chillingly calm now, the kind of calm that’s more dangerous than any shout or scream. “You’re not going to hurt her anymore. Not with your words, not with your lies, not with your bullshit. Do you hear me? You’re done.”

There’s a finality in his tone; a deadly promise that makes my breath catch. Robie slowly steps back, his face pale in fear. He knows, just as I do, that Matéo just drew a line, and if crossed, there will be consequences.

Karine, however, isn’t finished. She steps forward, her perfectly manicured nails digging into Robie’s arm as she drags him aside, her voice climbing to an ear-piercing shriek. “This is our property! She’s got no right here, and I never want her filthy ass near this house again!” she screams, flecks of spittle flying from her mouth.

She hurls something at my feet—my vision board, photos, notes, dreams taped to a mirror. It shatters with a sickening crack, scattering my hopes across the pavement. “Take your stupid dreams with you,” she sneers, lip twisting. “Like you’re ever going to amount to anything!”

The sight of my dreams, the life I had dared to imagine, lying shattered on the ground feels like a knife to the heart. My chest tightens, the pain so sharp it’s almost unbearable.

My hands tremble as I bend down to pick up the pieces, tears blurring my vision. It’s stupid, right? To feel so devastated over some pieces of cardboard and photos? I know, deep down, that most of those dreams were just fantasies, wishful thinking. I’ve always known.

But it’s not just that. It’s what it all represented. The dreams I put on that board, the life I wanted but never truly believed I’d have, were what kept me going when everything else felt so damn bleak. They were my little bit of light in all this darkness.

And now that light has been snuffed out.

Matéo crouches down beside me and gently picking up the pieces and placing them in a pile. “It’s gonna be okay” he murmurs in his soft voice soft again, all traces of his earlier fury gone. But I can’t hear him over the roar of my own heartbreak.

I hurl the last of my belongings into the garbage bin, the harsh clatter of items echoing in the empty street. I slam the lid shut, the sound resonating like a final gavel on my past. My gaze is empty, drained of hope, mirroring the void I feel inside.

Mateo catches me just as my knees weaken, pulling me into a tight embrace. When I finally gather myself, I pull away, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand, and turn to him, “Could you do me one last favor? Drive me to the motel next to the bus station.” I whisper.

“Not a chance,” he replies, his hand finding mine, fingers interlacing with a certainty that brooks no argument. “You’re coming home with me.”

---

Thank you so much for reading. This chapter left me thinking—did it hit you the same way? Drop your thoughts, favorite line, or anything you’d like to say to Robie or Karine below 👇🏼