A/N: I know it's been forever and I deeply apologize. I started teaching full-time back in August and I've hardly had time to breathe. I had much bigger plans for this chapter, but seeing as how I probably won't have time to write until Christmas break, I wanted to go ahead and get this out there so that hopefully everyone will know that this story (and any others) are not abandoned and I have not left the fandom. I'm just miserably busy at the moment. And a special thanks to chelziefor squeezing me in between her real-life responsibilities as well. Please enjoy!


Finally, finally after what feels like years, the last guest excuses herself. Gale and Delly take off to their house on Queen Anne Hill, leaving only Effie, Haymitch, Peeta, and me. After some debate, it's decided that Peeta and I will follow my aunt and uncle to the home in which I was raised. Gently, Peeta coaxes the rental car keys from my hand. That's probably for the best… I can barely feel my feet from all the gin swimming in my head.

The drive to the house is definitely less awkward than the drive from the airport, but by no means comfortable. For the first time in my life, I'm grateful that Effie has such Puritanical ideas about non-married couples sharing a bed. I'm desperate to sink into the plush mattress in my old bedroom room and fall into the deep sleep of drunken exhaustion. And to have five minutes to myself to process what I've done by bringing a male escort across the country to attend my sister's wedding with me.

Uncle Haymitch and Peeta carry my luggage up the winding stairs of the house while my aunt helps me maintain my footing. To my surprise, she isn't chiding me about having too much to drink. Maybe she realizes that tonight her incessant nagging would only make her a hypocrite. And a hypocrite is the only thing Aunt Effie hates worse than an unmade face.

We stop in front of my childhood bedroom door and the four of us stand awkwardly, unsure who is supposed to make the next move. Once again, Peeta saves the day.

"Thank you again for having me," he says with a genuine smile.

Effie waves him off. "Of course. Honestly, it's just a pleasure to meet you, considering we only just found out about you—"

"Come on, princess," Haymitch implores her and I make a mental note to thank my uncle tomorrow for his impeccable timing. "They're tired. Let's let them get settled."

"Umm. Where is Peeta sleeping?" I clear my throat, embarrassed that I have to ask. This oversight on my aunt's part is unprecedented.

She laughs, high and clear, and shoots Peeta s look as if to say that I've lost it. "I am not as small-town as my niece seems to think. You will stay with her, of course."

"Of course…" I say lamely and try to ignore the wink my uncle shoots me as he leads Effie back down the stairs. Peeta grins and with some shuffling, we drag all of our luggage into the bedroom.

Growing up, I'd always thought my room was huge, but with time and Peeta's added presence, the walls feel tight and claustrophobic. Other than that, absolutely nothing about the space has changed. The queen-sized bed is exactly where it's always been, the dresser and closets are the same. My desk still stands against the wall and the door to the en suite bathroom is still to the left. Of course it's the same. Places don't change, just our perception of them.

I clear my throat. "You can shower first if you want," I tell Peeta. "I have a lot more to unpack than you."

"Sounds good." He nods and then asks where he can stash his small suitcase. After retrieving his toiletries and stowing his bag inside the top of my closet, Peeta steps into the bathroom to brush his teeth. He doesn't shut the door between us, but I suppose he isn't naked yet so there's no reason for my nerves.

I busy myself, unpacking my clothes and hanging them in the closet, looking at the surprisingly not awful pale purple bridesmaid dress hanging in a plastic bag, and setting out my minimal—but Delly approved—makeup on the vanity table beside the desk.

"How'd you know this was me?" Peeta asks from the bed where all my smaller luggage pieces rest. In his hand is a carefully folded and very worn newspaper clipping—Madge's article. The article that started this whole damn thing. I hadn't even realized he finished brushing his teeth.

"I have…" Mortified, I snatch the paper away from him. I don't even remember packing it. "A friend… Madge." I finally settle on a direct answer. No point in beating around the bush. "Madge is my best friend. She, uhh… Well, she…" My hands flap uselessly in the air and I press them to my thighs in desperation. My cheeks burn hot.

"So much for anonymity…" he snorts as he untucks the button-down shirt from his pants and I avert my eyes quickly. "Go ahead and look," he says dryly. "I mean, you paid for it."

"I know what you must think of me." I try to keep myself busy by talking and refolding my clothes before laying them in the dresser drawers. It doesn't work, not even close, because I've folded the same pair of panties about thirty times. I catch myself stealing glances at his well-defined (and naked! When exactly did he lose his shirt?) torso. There's a thatch of blond hair that starts just under his navel and leads down to…

"Anyway." I blink rapidly. "I just never thought anything like this would happen to me."

He shakes his head and pulls his pants down in one fluid motion. "Look, I'm not really in the business of judging people for what they do. But I'm intrigued, so I'm going to bite—you think this happened to you?"

I know what he means. I'm not an innocent party in this at all and it's unfair to call myself a victim of anything, especially circumstance. It's not like he just showed up in the seat next to me on the plane and asked if he could take me to my sister's wedding. I'm the sole protagonist of this story.

I shrug. "I meant 'happened' in the sense that I tracked you down, called you, flew you across the country, and handed you six-thousand dollars out of my 401K." Even I know how utterly ridiculous I sound. "I just…" I sigh. "I never thought I would be in this situation. It… Life hasn't turned out like I thought it would."

He just nods, like he understands completely, and for the first time I start to wonder if he just might. Without another word, he steps back into the washroom and I sigh gratefully when the water starts to run. My relief is short-lived, though, as I notice that the door is still open. I guess he has nothing to hide. I, on the other hand, can't imagine being so carefree about my body. Still, it's a fight for me to avert my eyes as I catch the flash of his orange boxer briefs as they slide down over his muscular thighs.

I try unsuccessfully to concentrate on my clothes, but I only packed for a few days after all, and there are only so many times you can fold a thong before you start to feel stupid. It's an incredibly foolish idea—maybe even more so than inviting him to the wedding to begin with—to follow him into the bathroom, but now that the proverbial cat is out of the bag, I grab the folded newspaper and swallow the lump in my throat.

I have no interest in seeing my escort naked, on a conscious level at least, but I do have a few questions about his line of work. Why did he decide to do it? Does he work a lot or just sporadically? How many weddings has he been invited to in order to help someone pathetically single (like me) impress her (or his!) overbearing family (like mine)? So what if he doesn't like it? Unlike Madge, I don't plan on printing his answers, and that's what he gets for leaving the bathroom door open. I wait, rather impatiently, for the shower curtain to open and close, and Peeta's low voice to drift out on the steam. He really is a terribly singer… Of course, it could just be the song selection.

"Air Supply?" I scoff as I lean against the doorjamb.

He snorts and peeks around the curtain, water dripping from his soaked hair. "I assumed you were a fan." Peeta smiles as he nods to the poster plastered to the backside of the door, yet another left-over relic from what feels like a lifetime ago.

"It was a… Belonged to umm… The foreign exchange student." I rip it down hastily and shove it into the trash bin to the side of the toilet. I have to be the worst liar in the world. "He was from… China or… Somewhere. So." I clear my throat and perch on the edge of the commode. "I have a few questions."
"Yeah, you struck me as the questioning kind." A suds-covered hand waves from the side of the curtain. "Ask away."

Well, that was unexpected. I had prepared for him to fight me tooth and nail to avoid talking about himself. Startled, I unfold the article and scan through it for the faint pencil marks I used to denote my thoughts.

"Okay, so the thing about your mom…" I tread carefully, waiting for him to answer so I can judge his reaction.

"It's true," he says simply. "I was the youngest of three boys and by far the most unremarkable."

My breath catches in my throat. I feel terrible for him. "Oh, God, you really did go into all this to make yourself feel worthy of love." The article hinted at as much, and Madge warned me not to get too involved, as her source was "emotionally distant," but there's no way I could have imagined this.

"Fuck no!" Peeta responds vehemently from behind the shower curtain. "Shit, is that what Madge is telling everyone?"

I stammer out a few nonsensical syllables, but I'm far from convincing.

"Look, if you really want to know why, I'll tell you," he says, the offense he took in my question all too obvious in his voice. "I like sex. I'm good at it. So I figured I might as well get paid for it. Everyone always says you should love your job."

"And you do?"

"I do."

I'm not entirely convinced, but the finality of his tone is clear, and I know that pushing any further will probably—definitely—end badly. I tuck a stray tendril of hair behind my ear while I work up the dignity to leave my hired date to shower in privacy.

"Okay," he says quietly, just as I start to push myself into standing. "What else do you want to know?"

"Oh… Nothing… Never mind…" Curiosity burns hot in my head, but its heat is nothing compared to the flush of my cheeks. Things were going so well at the party and then I had to go and open my big mouth. What's worse is that I can't even blame Aunt Effie or Delly. Nope, this royal fuck-up is all yours, Katniss. Drunk me never was good at doing anything other than passing out.

"I'd really just prefer to get this all out in the open now," he presses.

I sigh, grateful for the thin piece of fabric that separates us. I couldn't stand for him to see how uncomfortable this entire situation is making me. "Well, okay, there is one more thing…" I glance down to the article, scanning for the one quotation that sent my blood boiling. "You say, and I quote, 'Every woman has the exact love life she wants.'" Righteous anger rises in my throat. "Now that seems like a fairly big—Oh, my God!" I stop mid-sentence and clap my free hand over my eyes. In my preoccupation with the article and my selfish need to extract information from Peeta, I hadn't realized that the tap stopped running or that the shower curtain whisked open or that Peeta Mellark, male escort, exited the tub to stand right in front of me. And, as luck would have it, my height, combined with my choice of seat location, puts me right at eye level with Little Peeta, which just might be the worst misnomer in the history of the world.

I don't want to look, truthfully I don't; but my fingers spread of their own accord and I can't look away.

It has to be one of the prettiest dicks I've ever seen. Not that I have much to compare him to… But as far as penises go this one… Well. It's a nice cock.

It takes me a painfully embarrassing moment to force my eyes upward, following the dips and ridges of his stomach, covered in soft, golden hair that thins over his chest. When I finally reach his eyes, I recognize the smug grin that teases the corners of his mouth and the dangerous way his blue eyes twinkle.

I swivel on the toilet seat and choke back the humiliation that threatens to suffocate me. I focus instead on the anger from his generalization about single women that still roils under the surface. "Do you honestly think that I want to be alone and miserable and hung up on the ex that dumped me out of nowhere?" Excellent tactic, I chide myself. Nothing screams emotional security like staring in wonder at your hooker's junk while stammering about how you're still in love with your ex-fiancé.

He pauses, thinks for a moment, and I hear the rustling of a towel as he dries himself. "First of all, there's no such thing as 'out of nowhere.' There are always signs and there are always people who miss them. And secondly…" Peeta secures the white towel around his waist as he steps around me and through the doorframe. "Yeah, I do think you like it. I don't know how or why—I'm not a real therapist, remember?—but when you're ready to let go of Thom and move on with someone else, you will."

I gape after him. Then, in utter frustration, and because I can't even begin to think of words to express how pissed I am, I slam the bathroom door between us, strip as quickly as possible, and step into the hottest shower I can stand.


I scrub and seethe under the tap until the water has cooled considerably and my skin is pink and raw. Even I know I can't avoid him forever, no matter how awkward our encounter was. Maybe, by taking the longest shower I can get away with, he'll be nestled into the queen-sized bed snoring away by the time I redress and rejoin him in my bedroom.

I'm as quiet as possible as I towel-dry and comb the tangles from my long hair and brush my teeth, but as I step into the bedroom, Peeta's propped up on two pillows, thumbing through a thick book, a pair of black-framed reading glasses sliding down his nose. He smiles at me as I retrieve extra pillows and blankets from the closet and shove them against his side.

"Should I even ask?"

I sigh. "Look, nothing personal, I just…" I stop short, because there's no way I can maneuver out of this conversation without further embarrassment. Why did the pleasant burn of the gin have to fade away on the wisps of steam from my shower?

"You don't want to sleep next to a prostitute?" he provides, a wry smile tugging the right side of his mouth upwards.

"You aren't… It's not…" I stammer hopelessly, wringing my hands as humiliation rushes over me. "Look. I haven't been with anyone since Thom and I don't… I guess I don't want to tempt myself."

He nods. "Fair enough." And without another word, he closes his book and shuts off the lamp.

I poke and prod at the barrier I've erected between Peeta's hips and the empty space for my sleeping spot—how did he know that I prefer the left side of the bed?—until I'm finally satisfied with it. Then, mortified that I've revealed more to Peeta in the past twelve hours than I've told Madge in three years of friendship, I crawl into bed.

I promised myself during my shower that I wouldn't bring up the conversation between my ex-fiancé and my date-for-hire that I accidentally overheard earlier, but staring up at the dark ceiling, my curiosity gets the better of me. I have to know exactly what Peeta meant when he said Thom was still crazy about me. Surely it's possible that he was only trying to placate me. I roll onto my side and tap Peeta's shoulder gently. His response is nothing more than a muffled grunt, but I take it as a go-ahead.

"How did Thom sound?" I ask quietly. "When you talked to him earlier, was he…" I falter, not sure where I was even heading with that. Do I want him to be sad? Remorseful? Certainly not happy.

Peeta is quiet for so long that I start to wonder how he could have fallen asleep so quickly, but then he takes a deep breath. "He sounded haunted… Like there's something he can't forgive himself for. I don't know if that's what you meant or not, but that's the only way I can describe it."

I chew on the corner of my mouth and turn this information over for a moment. I was prepared for lonely or sad or melancholy… But I never would have imagined haunted. It seems so tragic and somehow beautiful all at the same time. I'm still uncovering depths in someone I thought I knew better than anyone else.

My back aches and I shift ever-so-slightly toward Peeta. I have to stifle a gasp as I see the expanse of his naked back. I study the dark planes as I inhale sharply despite my best efforts, and for a moment, I seriously consider tucking my hands under my body to keep them from seeking out and tracing the broad curves of those shoulders. Then my stomach tugs almost painfully and I remember that this entire thing with Peeta is a ruse, fabricated only to placate my overbearing family and just maybe spark the tiniest bit of jealousy in my ex.

"You really think he still wants me?" My voice is barely a whisper and it fades into the black night quickly, borne away on the deep, even sounds of Peeta's breath as he sleeps.


I surprise myself by sleeping soundly through the night—I blame the vestiges of the gin—until Aunt Effie raps on the door at ten-thirty to rouse Peeta and me to prepare for the day-long stag parties. I'm shocked. I can't remember the last time she let me sleep past eight. My cheeks burn with the realization that my aunt probably thinks Peeta and I were up far later than we actually were and that we were expending a lot more energy than… Well, than we actually did.

But this slight embarrassment is nothing compared to what I feel when I open my eyes. Jesus, you'd think I'd be used to making a fool of myself. I've gotten incredibly good at it over the past day. The make-shift barrier I'd carefully placed to keep Peeta's and my bodies from touching in the night has made its way into the floor on the side of the bed. What's worse, I've flung my arm and leg across Peeta. I'm actually fucking spooning him.

I freeze. Of course I want nothing more than to extricate myself from the position before he wakes and realizes exactly how desperate I truly am. And, of course, I don't want him to get the wrong impression about how far I expect this relationship to go. Slowly, carefully, one muscle at a time, I lift my limbs and prepare to roll onto my back and then onto my side so I can swing my legs to the floor.

"Good morning." I've barely rotated my stiff hips when Peeta's blue eyes open and he blinks sleepily. "What the hell are you doing?"

I flip my body over so quickly that there's no earthly way I could maintain my balance (or dignity) as I tumble off the bed and onto the small mountain of pillows and blankets. "It's… We have to get ready…" I mumble as I push myself off the floor. "And you should get up, too. It's a big day for you guys. Going to see the Sounders or whatever."

He sits up in bed, the sheets pooling around his waist, and runs a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. "Is it normal to have a soccer-themed bachelor party?"

"Don't ask me." I shrug. "Delly's bachelorette is golf-themed."

His eyes narrow. "How does that even work?"

"I don't know!" I say exasperatedly, tugging at my hair out of sheer nervousness. "Everyone wears a shit-ton of argyle and knee-socks and we play a few rounds on the course before we matriculate to the bar to drink eighteen shots by the end of the night."

"Oh, I think I get it." Peeta nods his understanding, and his blond eyebrows shoot up mischievously. "One shot per hole?"

I blush at the obvious innuendo in his voice and head for the bathroom before he can comment further. But he just manages to speak before I escape into the relative privacy of my en-suite bathroom.

"Should I even ask about par?"

I pause in the door and turn to him over my shoulder. "Not puking. Get dressed." I slam the door closed, grateful that at least I'll have a brief reprieve from blushing over every word I say.


Peeta agrees to drop me off at the bar Delly has chosen for her party before he meets up with the guys at Gale's house. I know why I'm not driving—I plan on being utterly shit-faced by the end of the night—but I'm curious as to why Peeta doesn't want to take advantage of an open bar. I make a mental note to ask him about it later as he walks me down to the car. We pass my uncle, who has chosen to escape the insanity by escaping to his home away from home—the small boat he purchased last year and takes out on the Sound as often as he can. The weather this weekend has been perfect so far, and I know Haymitch well enough to realize that he must be cursing both my sister and my aunt for choosing this weekend for the world's most ridiculous wedding.

"Ahoy!" he calls jovially from the deck. "Ahh, sweetheart, you look like Tiger Woods's wife." He nods to my pink skirt, pale blue V-neck sweater, and argyle patterned knee-socks. I look ridiculous, but this was the outfit Delly specifically requested I wear.

Beside me, Peeta snickers, no doubt at the Tiger Woods's wife comment, but I decide not to get into it right now. "Thanks, Uncle Haymitch."

He watches carefully as Peeta opens the car door for me. "You kids have fun tonight. Peeta, be sure to call if you have a little more than anticipated and need a ride back. Gale and company can party pretty hard."

"Will do, sir," Peeta responds before he climbs into the driver's seat.

I study him while he adjusts the seat and mirrors to his liking. Now seems like as good a time as any to bring up my question. "You don't plan on drinking at all tonight, do you?"

"I'll have a beer or two." He shrugs as he pulls the car onto the residential street and we head toward downtown Seattle. "But it's been my experience that most bachelor parties require at least one sober person to make the necessary Taco Bell run at three in the morning, and I'm happy to oblige."

A laugh escapes my throat and I almost startle. It feels like I haven't truly laughed in years. I decide to resume the questioning I never finished last night. He's trapped with me and he can't very well fall asleep this time. "So have you done a lot of weddings?"

Peeta searches my face for a moment. I'm not positive what he's looking for—maybe he's worried that I'll report back to Madge for another, more damning article. Whatever it is, he eventually sighs and nods, acquiescing to me.

"No," he answers after what feels like forever, and I release a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. "I've never done a wedding, but I have been to several funerals."

I scoff. "People take escorts to funerals?" I don't even try to hide the disbelief in my voice. "Christ, someone's dead."

"Yeah," Peeta nods, his blue eyes wide in utter seriousness. "Imagine facing that alone."

"Point taken," I respond quietly. I hadn't thought of Peeta as moral support in a time like that. Mostly, I thought, he got paid to have sex with women. I'm suddenly very embarrassed. To give myself something to do, I reach up to adjust the neckline of my sweater. It's a little too big and it keeps slipping down further than I'm comfortable with.

He clears his throat. "You look nice. I, um… I like your hair like that." If I didn't know better, I'd think he was trying to make the situation a little less awkward.

I reach a hand to the thick chignon on the back of my head. I debated long and hard with myself as to whether or not I should wear it down tonight. I knew Delly would pitch a fit if I tugged my hair into its usual braid, but I also didn't feel like pulling it off my sweaty neck all night, as would be necessary if I left it down. Eventually, I decided to create several smaller braids and twist them into a knot that I pinned up and out of the way. It's dressy enough to appease my sister and still cool enough to endure an evening of drinking and dancing.

With a start, I realize I've been silent for far too long. "Thank you," I murmur.

He chuckles. "You're not used to compliments, are you?"

"Is it that obvious?" I blush.

"Maybe not to everyone else, but it's kind of my job to pick up on those things."

I'm constantly surprised by how cavalier he speaks about his work. It does nothing but further spark my curiosity. Maybe I should have been a journalist after all. "So…" I say slowly, realizing that I have to tread lightly around this subject. "Tell me about your clients."

He grins. "I appreciate that you're curious about what I do, but I really can't talk about my clients." He's declined me, but at least he's being polite about it. I feel like we've taken a huge step forward. And he's still smiling, the corners of his too-blue eyes crinkling.

"Come on!" I press as we pull to a stop at the curb in front of the bar, a swanky club right on the wharf, the bright neon sign above christening it as the Pier 12 Pub. Peeta steers the car into a parking spot and kills the engine. "Just tell me how many of them want to sleep with you," I finish as he withdraws the key from the ignition.

"You should go." He shakes his head as he steps from the car, crosses around to my door and opens it, extending his hand to help me gain my footing on the curb. It's also obvious that I can't walk for shit in high heels.

I lean against the car and cross my arms over my chest. "I'm not going anywhere until you give me something about your job. It's only fair."

He sighs, but a smile plays on his mouth and finally he shakes his head the tiniest bit. "You know, I swear, it's not even about the sex for most people."

"I find that difficult to believe," I say, fighting to keep my eyes locked on his and not rake them up and down his frame. "I mean, look at you." Damn. Too much energy spent on not looking and not enough spent on controlling my mouth.

Peeta takes it in stride. "Nah… It's not about me," he insists. "It's about you, what you need from me the most. And for very few people is that actually an orgasm."

I'm not convinced, mostly because I truly believe that a lot of life's problems can be if not solved, then at least abated by a good, hard fucking. So I roll my eyes, turn back to the still open car door, and toss my small silver clutch into the passenger seat.

"All right," I say firmly. "Show me."

He laughs and runs a hand through his hair, a gesture, I'm beginning to realize, that means he's flustered. "Show you what exactly?"

"If what you do really isn't about sex…" Boldly, I trail a finger up his chest. "Then show me what you mean."

"I don't play games, Katniss."

I scoff. "Oh, whatever. You're like the Yoda of escorts. Getting you on the phone was harder than getting into college. Come on…" I grab for his hand and my stomach flips when our skin makes contact. "Show me."

"What's stopping me?" he smirks. "Could it be the phrase, 'morally repugnant?'"

I blush and begin to stammer out an apology, but my words are cut short when Peeta presses a long finger to my lips and shushes me.

"Close your eyes," he murmurs, moving his face closer to mine.

I swallow hard and fixate on the impossibly long eyelashes that frame his bright eyes.

"Close your eyes," he repeats, his voice lower and more commanding. I try to surreptitiously glance around to verify that I'm not making a fool of myself in front of all Delly's friends, but Peeta's lips ghost my ear as he whispers again, "Close… Your… Eyes…"

Without another thought, I oblige.

"You're safe. Just relax."

My lips pucker automatically.

He chuckles. "I'm not going to kiss you."

His voice is a low hum that reverberates through my entire body. I'm suddenly desperate for his touch, for his body to press against mine, and his mouth to find my lips over and over again until I'm breathless. My knees feel shaky and weak and I'm grateful for the car behind me. I'd collapse into oncoming traffic if it weren't for the steel and Peeta's embrace.

"He is going to be so sorry he lost you…" Peeta's breath is on my cheeks now. His lips barely touch my eyelids. His broad hands grab my hips and pull me towards him and I feel his entire body thrumming just inches from me. "So forget the past. Forget the pain. And just focus on what a phenomenal woman you are. You do that and he'll realize what he lost."

My heart pounds and I'm slack-jawed as he backs away from me. The air is still electric with tension as I open my eyes to stare directly at the plump lips that I want nothing more than to devour. I feel better than I have in months. I feel relaxed and balanced. Honestly, I feel like I've just come down from the biggest, hardest, greatest orgasm of all time.

"Holy… Shit…" I say breathlessly as Peeta moves to stand beside me. "You're worth every penny."

He grins and I vainly try to swallow the lump that's risen in my throat.

"You should probably go…" he says softly.

"Mmhmm…" I nod as my eyes flutter shut of their own accord. I'd do anything to stay in this moment for just a while longer.

"Katniss."

"Yep!" I snap my eyes open. "Okay, Yoda. I'm going." Carefully, still punch-drunk on his words and unstable in the knees, I take a teetering step forward. Peeta's hands immediately find the small of my back and he gently nudges my hips to the left. I nod gratefully and try to maintain my composure. If he hadn't steered me in the right direction, I probably would have walked right off into the Puget Sound.


Thank you for reading! If you have questions or comments, please leave them here and I'll get to them as soon as possible. :) -meggie