Just because he's good in bed, doesn't mean I want to become Mrs. Chad the Underwear Model.

"You should at least know his last name."

It's Wednesday evening and I'm watching my roommate get ready for a big date with her boyfriend. I should have known she would bring up Chad, she often does when she's planning on seeing Chase. Plus, last night was the third time that she walked in on Chad naked in our kitchen.

I have no regrets.

It takes a large amount of effort not to scoff at her suggestion and I suppress the urge to make a snarky comment. Diana is the sweetest thing since chocolate chip ice cream, but she just doesn't understand my lack of interest in relationships.

The truth is, being an event planner is demanding as hell. It's full of long nights, screaming brides, and in one case, an epic bout of food poisoning. During wedding season, I barely remember my own surname, let alone Chad's.

Even though work has quietened down now, I don't see myself ever getting serious with him. Relationships are too much effort; remembering birthdays and anniversaries, meeting the parents, the constant worry of whether he's going to call or not. Why put myself through it if I don't have to?

And do I really need to know his last name if I'm just sleeping with him?

"I mean, if he's going to be over so often, we should probably stop referring to him as 'Chad the underwear model'. It's kind of rude," she insists, pointing her straightener at me. As far as weapons go, it's a pretty poor effort.

I could do without the counselling session though. I'm quite happy with what Chad and I have.

She is right in a way. The last few weeks he's been over more often than usual. Normally, I only see him once every fortnight or so but, thanks to my work load lightening, I've had more time for extracurricular activities. Like seeing Chad naked.

"I do know his last name," I argue, wanting to prove her wrong. I rack my brain, trying to remember. I'm sure he mentioned it once in passing. "It's Murray."

I think. It could be Reynolds?

"Lex, that's an actor you're thinking of." She laughs and turns back to the mirror, running the tongs through her dirty blonde hair once more before turning it off. "Don't you want something more meaningful?"

"Don't you want to finish getting ready before Chase comes to fetch you?" I counter, hoping that she will drop the subject.

"Fine," she huffs, checking the silver watch on her wrist and heading towards her closet to rifle through her clothes. "But this conversation isn't over."

Yes, it is.

I swing my legs off the bed and start to fiddle with the assorted make up that's spread out across her dressing table. "Where is the Singing Bartender taking you anyway?" I question, knowing just how much she hates it when I call him that.

She grimaces in response but doesn't say anything about my little nickname for her boyfriend. "I'm actually not too sure." Diana pulls a white top off a hanger and holds it against herself, looking at me for confirmation. I shake my head, remembering the last time she wore it and it went see-through when she accidentally spilled on it.

"Two months now, that's pretty exciting," I comment as she eventually gives up looking for a shirt and instead starts browsing her dresses. To me, it doesn't sound exciting. It sounds bloody terrifying. Since they've been dating, they see each other pretty much daily and when they're not together, they're on the phone non-stop. Who has that much time to waste on someone else?

And why the need to celebrate? I don't understand why they need to have an anniversary every month. But each to their own, I guess.

"Yes," she flushes, her cheeks turning a soft shade of pink. I can tell that she really likes this one. Over the last couple of months, I've seen small changes in Diana. She's become more confident in herself and she's constantly smiling, all thanks to Chase.

Thank fuck, because her last boyfriend was a real tool bag. He made her self-conscious and he was a controlling dick. I'm so glad she finally saw sense and broke it off with him, even if it took her a little longer than I would have liked.

"Are you still coming to the open Mic night on Friday?" she asks me, settling on a green dress that I'm sure I may have even borrowed before.

"Wouldn't miss it," I answer with a smile. Her boyfriend owns our favourite bar, although it might be more accurate to say that it became our favourite bar around the same time they started dating.

I hope they never break up. We would have to find another place to hang out.

Oh, and also because she would be really upset.

But mainly the hang out thing.

Once a month they have these open Mic nights which are cool. Chase, on top of being able to mix awesome cocktails, also has a pretty decent set of pipes. Hence the adorable nickname I gave him, which Diana hates.

"I better get going." She checks her watch again, blowing me a kiss as she exits the room. "Try and behave tonight."

Behave? It's like she doesn't even know me.

As soon as she's left our apartment, I take out my phone and send a text.

☆

Chad arrives less than ten minutes later. "You miss me, sweetheart?"

I don't respond, instead pulling him in for a kiss. I like Chad for three reasons.

1. He is incredibly gorgeous

2. He is good in bed

3. Refer back to reason number one

The fact that our conversations are basically non-existent doesn't really bother me too much; after all I don't need him to speak. I prefer him to put his mouth to better use. Besides, when we do talk, all he does is complain about his work. How sometimes he has to stand outside in nothing but his undies when it's cold. How he has to go to the tanning salon so often he's worried his skin is going to become leathery. Worst of all, how intense his latest work out sessions are.

If you want a six pack, you have to work for it. Stop whinging, dude.

I really hate words like 'booty call' but I guess that's kind of what he is to me. He comes over whenever I text him and vice versa. We don't go on dates, or text in between and the only places we hang out are in each other's apartments. It's an arrangement that works well for both of us.

Or so I thought.

Afterwards, as we lie tangled up in my sheets, our breathing slowly returning to normal, he props himself up on his elbow and starts playing with my hair. "Lex..." His voice has a whiny edge to it, almost like he wants something. It really doesn't suit him. Usually his voice is one of the sexiest things about him; deep and husky.

"What's up?" I answer sleepily. I'm not in the mood for conversation. I've had a long week already, although Chad's made it marginally better. I'm feeling content and satisfied and like I want to roll over and sleep until the weekend. The last thing I want right now is to talk.

"What's going on with us?"

I hate that question. I really do. I mean, just the way it's phrased is enough to drive me up the wall. If you want to have 'the talk', at least be a man about it and say what you want. I'm not exactly sure how to tackle this, if I say the wrong thing it will either offend him or make him think that we are in a relationship.

Neither of which I want.

I don't want to be tied down to him. Chad seems to me like he could be one of those clingy guys who always wants to know what I'm doing. He's already incredibly high maintenance as it is. I can't imagine what he would be like if we were dating. What we have now is perfect, a few snatched moments here and there.

"What do you mean?" I settle for answering his question with one of my own, trying to buy myself some time while I think what to say.

"I mean, are we dating? We've been doing this for months, Lex," he points out. "To be honest, I would like to see where it goes."

Just like that he has sealed his own fate. The use of the word 'dating' is the final nail in his coffin. The fact that he's even asked just makes it worse. "Chad, I thought we were both just having fun."

He stops playing with my hair and looks at me. "And what if I've started to feel something more than just 'fun'?"

Now I'm really at a loss for words, I never would have pictured Chad admitting that to me. He takes my silence as an answer and stands up, searching around the floor for his jeans. "You know Alexa, you can't always be afraid of love."

So now we've somehow progressed from 'something more than fun' to 'love'? That escalated very quickly.

I sit up, clutching the sheet to my bare chest and watch as he pulls his pants back on. Ironically, he's going commando under those jeans. I hadn't noticed in my rush to pull them off. I wonder what his agent would say if she knew? Isn't there such a thing as chafing? Shouldn't he be wearing the products he models?

Right Alexa, because that should be your biggest concern right now.

I realise that I still haven't said anything and I probably should at least make the effort to defend myself. By the time I have found my voice, he has dropped to the floor to look for his shirt. "I am not afraid of love, Chad, I just..." I trail off, thinking of the best way to phrase this.

"You just what?" he finally finds his shirt, pulls it on inside out and looks at me expectantly.

I just can't take you seriously.

But there is no way in hell that I can say that to him. He already looks like he's about to burst. His face is slowly turning red; his eyebrows are raised so high they almost disappear into his honey blonde hairline.

"That's what I thought," he practically spits at me, stalking towards the door with his shoes in his hands.

"Chad, wait," I call out but when he stops and turns to look at me, I can't actually remember what I had been about to say. "I'm sorry," I settle with, hoping it conveys everything I'm trying to apologise for.

I'm sorry I don't feel the same. I'm sorry that I completely misread our situation. I'm sorry I handled this so badly.

"Call me when you've got your shit together, Alexa," he ignores my half-assed apology and delivers one more verbal slap. With that he leaves my room, slamming the door behind him so hard that my teeth rattle. Not long after I hear him close the apartment door as well. I pull the sheet closer to my chest as the lingering smell of his cologne fills my nostrils.

It crosses my mind to go after him, but honestly, what would be the point? Although I could have handled that confrontation a lot better, I've always been honest with him about what I want. I can't tell him what he wants to hear right now. I don't want to turn this into something more. I liked just having fun with him.

Just because he's good in bed, doesn't mean I want to become Mrs Chad the Underwear Model.

Judging by the venom in his voice and the anger with which he slammed the door, I don't think he will be back here anytime soon.

Damn. I'm going to miss those abs.