Sunlight stabs through the half-closed blinds, painting golden stripes across Emily's bedroom. I blink awake to the sound of running water and the faint smell of coconut shampoo drifting from the bathroom. For a moment, I just lie there, letting the unfamiliar comfort of cotton sheets and memory foam pillows sink in. No squeaking springs. No drafts. No mold smell. Just... peace.
The bathroom door opens in a cloud of steam, and Emily emerges wrapped in a fluffy white towel, her wet hair slicked back from her face. Without makeup, with droplets of water still clinging to her skin, she looks younger, softer somehow. My chest tightens at the sight.
"Morning, sleepyhead," she says, noticing my open eyes. "I was trying not to wake you."
I prop myself up on my elbows, drinking in the sight of her. "What time is it?"
"Just after nine." She moves to her dresser, rummaging through drawers with practiced efficiency. "I have to go run a few quick errands, but I laid out breakfast for you in the kitchen."
The domesticity of it all hits me like a warm wave. Breakfast. Laid out for me. By someone who cares enough to do that.
"Is it work?" I ask, trying to sound casual while my brain conjures images of her with other men.
Emily shakes her head, dropping her towel to slip on a pair of underwear. "No, nothing like that. I don't have any appointments scheduled for today." She pulls a sundress over her head, the fabric settling perfectly over her curves. "I just have to run to the bank and go grocery shopping."
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, suddenly eager to be useful. "Do you want me to go with you? I could carry stuff or whatever."
She crosses the room and cups my face in her hands, bending down to press a kiss against my lips that leaves me dizzy. "Just relax and take an easy day," she murmurs against my mouth.
My apartment. Right. We still need to officially move my stuff out. But the thought feels distant, unimportant.
"I have tonight off," I realize aloud, the rare freedom of an empty schedule spreading through me like a luxury.
Emily's smile widens. "Perfect. We'll do something special when I get back."
"That sounds amazing," I say, warmth spreading through my chest at the thought of spending a real evening with her, not as client and escort, but as lovers.
Emily's lips curve into that smile that still makes my heart stutter. "Yeah?" Her eyes sparkle with something playful as she leans down, one hand bracing against the mattress beside me.
Before I can respond, her mouth captures mine, no longer the gentle morning kiss from before but something deeper, hungrier. Her tongue slides against mine, tasting of mint toothpaste and promises. I reach up to touch her still-damp hair, but she pulls back just enough to whisper against my lips.
"I'll see you soon, okay?" Her breath is warm against my mouth, making me want to pull her back down onto the bed with me.
"Okay," I manage, my voice embarrassingly breathy.
She straightens up, smoothing her sundress. "There's coffee in the pot."
After Emily leaves, the house feels strangely empty. I pad into the kitchen, barefoot and shirtless, to find a plate covered with plastic wrap, two perfectly golden pieces of toast with avocado and a soft-boiled egg on top. Beside it sits a folded note in Emily's elegant handwriting: "Eat this and make yourself at home." She drew a little heart in the corner.
I stare at that heart longer than I should, something aching behind my ribs. When was the last time someone left me a note with a heart on it? Maybe never.
I'm just taking my first bite of avocado toast when a door down the hall clicks open. My chewing slows as Holly emerges from her bedroom, her hair disheveled and glasses slightly askew. She freezes when she spots me at the kitchen table, her eyes widening before narrowing into suspicious slits.
"Well, look who's making himself at home," she says, her voice thick with morning grogginess and unmistakable disdain.
I swallow my bite with difficulty, feeling like I've just been caught stealing. "Morning," I manage, hating how awkward I sound.
Holly doesn't respond, just shuffles to the cupboard and grabs a bowl with unnecessary force. I watch as she pours cereal, her movements deliberate and tense, like she's performing each action for an invisible audience. When she turns and slides into the chair directly across from me, I nearly choke on my next bite.
She stares at me over her bowl, spoon hovering midair. "So this is for real?" she finally asks, gesturing vaguely between me and the empty space where Emily would be. "You're actually dating my mom?"
The cereal makes a soft crackling sound in the milk-filled silence that follows.
"And what, you're moving in now?" she continues, not waiting for my answer. "Just like that?"
My throat feels desert-dry. Holly's blue eyes, so much like Emily's but harder, sharper, pin me to my seat. I can feel sweat beading at my hairline despite the pleasant temperature of the house.
"I don't know," I mumble, staring down at my half-eaten breakfast.
Holly snorts, finally bringing her spoon to her mouth. "You don't know if you're dating my mother or if you're moving in? Because it seems like both are already happening."
I push a piece of egg around my plate. "Your mom offered to let me stay here for a while. She didn't like my apartment."
Holly lets out a groan, dropping her spoon into her cereal with a splash. "Did it really have to be you?" she asks, running a hand through her messy hair. "You were one of the few kids in class who was actually nice to me."
"I'm sorry?" I offer, unsure what else to say.
"No, it's fine," she says, waving her hand dismissively. She sighs deeply, her shoulders slumping. "It's just... at least if it was one of those dickheads from our school, I could have been happy knowing Mom was dating a jerk. But you..."
My brow furrows as I set down my fork. "What's wrong with me?"
"Nothing," Holly says, and for a moment, her expression softens. "You were quiet, minded your own business. But then you dropped out anyway, even though you seemed to be getting B's."
"Mostly C's by the end," I correct her, surprised she paid that much attention to me back then. "My grades were tanking pretty hard those last few months."
She tilts her head, studying me with genuine curiosity now. "Why did you drop out?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with implications. I push my plate away slightly, my appetite fading as memories surface.
"My mom got sick," I say finally. "Cancer. Stage four by the time they caught it." I swallow hard, the familiar ache settling in my chest. "Insurance only covered so much, and someone had to pay the bills."
Holly's eyes widen slightly. "Oh. I didn't know."
"No reason you would," I shrug, trying to keep my voice casual. "Not like I announced it to the class or anything."
An uncomfortable silence settles between us as Holly stirs her cereal absently, the flakes turning soggy in the milk.
"She died a few months after I dropped out," I continue, not sure why I'm telling her this. "I didn't inherit the debt, but there was nothing left after she passed."
Holly's expression hardens, her spoon clattering against the ceramic bowl. "So what, you're tricking my mom into giving you free room and board now?"
"No, I have an apartment, technically. She saw it last night and told me it wasn't safe."
Holly raises an eyebrow, studying me with a calculating gaze that makes me feel transparent. "Interesting."
"I really love your mom," I say, the words coming out with more force than I intended.
A harsh laugh escapes her throat. "My prostitute mom? The mom that fucked Mr. Richardson to help me get better grades in calculus?" Her voice rises with each word. "Even though I was already the best in class before that?"
I grip the edge of the table, feeling my knuckles turn white. "I really love your mom," I repeat, holding her gaze steadily.
Holly stares into my eyes, something flashing behind her glasses, pain, anger, or maybe something deeper. "Well, I don't," she says flatly.
The words hit me harder than they should. I frown, looking down at my half-eaten breakfast before meeting her eyes again.
"My mom was a drug addict," I say quietly. "Before she got sick, I mean. Pills mostly, after a back injury." The admission feels raw, like peeling back a scab. "I thought I didn't love her either. I was so angry at her for choosing drugs over being present for me." I swallow hard. "But when she died, I still felt like I lost something important. Something I couldn't get back."
Holly's expression hardens, her fingers tightening around her spoon as she levels her gaze at me.
"Don't conflate our situations," she says, voice cutting through the kitchen like a blade. "I'm sorry your mother had issues, but that has nothing to do with my life or my relationship with Emily."
I nod, suddenly feeling foolish for trying to draw parallels between our experiences. The toast sits half-eaten on my plate, growing cold.
"Look," I say, meeting her eyes, "I'm not trying to complicate your life. I'll stay out of your way as much as possible while I'm here."
She cocks an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth lifting in what might be amusement or disdain, I can't tell which.
"I'd never let you get in my way, Dan," she says, the familiar cadence of her classroom confidence returning to her voice. She takes a deliberate bite of cereal, studying me as she chews. "So, how exactly did you meet my mother anyway?"
My stomach drops. "I'm... not sure if I should say."
Holly's eyes narrow slightly, understanding dawning across her features. "You were one of her clients." It's not a question.
I sigh, unable to deny it, the sound confirming what she already knows.
She leans forward, something almost clinical in her curiosity now. "What kind of stuff would you do with her?
Heat rushes to my face as I remember exactly what Emily and I have done together, things I definitely can't discuss with her daughter. The mommy play, the way Emily's voice changes when she calls me her "good boy," the countless hotel rooms where I've surrendered completely to her.
"That's private," I manage, my voice strained.
"Private?" Holly laughs, the sound sharp and brittle. "You're literally sitting in my kitchen after sleeping with my mother. The time for privacy has long passed."
"That's enough," I say firmly, pushing my chair back from the table. "This conversation is over."
Holly's eyes widen slightly, surprised by my sudden backbone. She recovers quickly, leaning forward with a calculating smile that reminds me eerily of Emily's professional charm.
"What about me?" she asks, her voice dropping to something softer, almost playful. "Would you give me a chance to see what has my mom's knickers in such a twist?"
My face burns hot enough to fry an egg. "Absolutely not."
Holly sighs dramatically before hooking a finger in the collar of her sleep shirt, tugging it down just enough to reveal the swell of her cleavage. The gesture is so unexpected I nearly choke on air.
"I know they're not as big as my mom's," she says with mock innocence, "but they're still quite a good size, don't you think?"
"You're killing me, Holly," I groan, averting my eyes and gripping the edge of the table. My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape.
"Come on," she presses, leaning further across the table. "My mom has never brought a man home once in my life. Show me what kind of tricks you used on her to woo her."
The implication hangs in the air between us, suffocating and wrong. I stand up so abruptly my chair nearly topples backward.
"I'm going back to the bedroom," I mutter, unable to look at her as I make my escape.
"Ah!" Holly calls after me, her voice suddenly shifting. "I didn't mean to embarrass you so much."
But I'm already halfway down the hall, my face burning with mortification. I slip into Emily's room and close the door behind me, leaning against it as I try to calm my racing pulse. What the hell just happened? Was she seriously coming onto me, or was that some twisted test? Not even twenty-four hours in this house, and things are already so uncomfortable.