Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
They’re probably screwing, that lucky bitch.
Turner glances around at his bed covers. “In here?”
I stare at his massive bed; at him. At the television.
Back at him.
Shrug. “Sure?” What could possibly go wrong?
All the horrible things have already happened, haven’t they? The near nudity, the jerking off. Not a ton left that would scandalize the other at this point.
So yeah. I kick off my slippers and go to the other side of the bed, climbing up onto the tall mattress because this is totally normal, platonic roommate behavior.
Big dude.
Bigger bed.
His room is large too and has a sitting area tucked in by the window, complete with a leather armchair and a floor lamp. A few books are stacked haphazardly on the side table. One of them has a bookmark wedged in the middle. I make a mental note: he reads.
Figures.
He probably journals too. And volunteers at shelters. And returns his grocery cart like a good citizen. Blah.
The massive, man-sized TV hangs on the wall in front of the bed like a cinematic monument. It’s playing something with car chases and testosterone, which tracks. So masculine.
“Fun fact,” I begin. “I’ve never had a TV in my room before.” I pull a blanket over my legs and lean against the nearest pillow.
Turner glances at me, surprised. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.” I nod. “Growing up, my parents never allowed it. Then when I moved out I kind of had the ideology that bedrooms were for two things—sleeping and sex.”
The two words hang in the air.
Sleeping. Sex.
Sex.
I clear my throat, attention flickering to his arm, stretched casually across the back of the pillows, and then, god help me, to his thigh, the way his sweatpants cling just right when he shifts.
This is a mistake.
A huge mistake.
“Do you mind?” I gesture vaguely to the screen. “Maybe I should go…”
He looks at me fully now, face unreadable for a second before he nods once. “Nah. You’re already under the blanket. That’s basically a nonverbal contract.”
Right.
Of course.
“Well I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything—we now know I have horrible timing.” Ha ha.
“Nope. I was, you know, swiping on the dating apps,” Turner drops the bomb, adding it to the stillness in the air.
Of course he’d be on dating apps. The man is single, good-looking, and kind. Crazy successful.
A catch.
Still, I feel awkward knowing this information when I’m single, too and have seen his junk. “How is the single scene around here? If I’m going to live here, this is need-to-know information.”
I squirm.
He shrugs. “To be honest, I’m not sure. I haven’t…” He clears his throat. “It’s been a long time since I’ve dated and now the guys are riding my ass about it, so I figured I might as well check it out.”
He picks up his phone from the nightstand and taps it a few times, then turns the screen toward me.
“Behold,” he says, deadpan. “The worst dating app bio in the history of mankind.”
I squint at it, reading aloud. “Hockey player. Middle child. Likes pets. Currently trying to figure out what to do with too many expired HelloFresh meals in his freezer. Open to suggestions.” It’s not the worst biography I’ve read, if we’re being honest. “The good news is, you haven’t said anything about fishing or hunting.”
“I haven’t added photos yet.”
“Oh god.” I slap a hand dramatically over his forearm. “Please—on behalf of women everywhere—don’t add fish photos.”
“I’m trying to seem approachable.” He gestures at his general mass. “The size thing kind of works against me.”
Is he serious?
Women love big dudes. The taller the better. Did he not get the memo?
“You absolutely do come off as approachable. But you also sound like someone’s divorced uncle who doesn’t grocery shop on a regular basis and only has butter in his fridge.”
No offense.
He winces. “That bad?”
“It’s humble but deeply unsexy. Which—congrats!—is really hard to do.”
He laughs and takes the phone back, shaking his head. “Okay, critic. What would you put?”
“I don’t know…” I cross my arms, pretending to consider. “Something like: Tall, dark, and emotionally available. Has a giant TV and knows how to use a washing machine.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You think putting ‘emotionally available’ in my dating bio is a good idea? Won’t that scare women off?”
No!
It won’t scare women off. It will attract them like bees on honey or flies on shit!
“Sure, it will scare the wrong people off,” I say. “And attract the right ones.” I select all the words in his bio and delete them, talking out loud as I type: Perpetual hockey bro. Own my own laundry basket. Will buy you coffee and listen to your podcast recommendations without judgment. Six foot plus something. Can reach the top shelf and carry your emotional baggage.”
There.
Turner doesn’t look convinced. “That’s what you think women want?”
“It’s what I want,” I blurt out. “And I can confidently say I speak for most women.”