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)
I grunt through my final push and rack the bar with a clang. “Um. I don’t know. I’ve been busy.”
He picks up a towel, wipes his hands. “Too busy to make time for a little joy in your life?”
I sit up, grab my water bottle, and shoot him a look. “By joy, do you mean fucking?”
Luca grins, leaning against the squat rack like he owns the place. “That’s exactly what I mean. Come out with us tonight. Drinks. Music. I’ll put together a small group, just the usual suspects. Nothing crazy.”
I roll my shoulder, considering. The idea of loud music and sticky floors doesn’t exactly appeal, but sitting home with the temptation of my new roommate, again, sounds worse.
“I don’t know, man,” I say, tossing my towel over my shoulder. “I don’t think I’m in the mood to pick up a stranger…”
“Listen. No one is putting pressure on you, but you haven’t been social in ages. It’s us,” he goes on. “We’ll celebrate my engagement.”
I arch a brow. “Didn’t you already celebrate your engagement like five times?”
“Who’s counting?” he asks. “And tonight will make six.”
I snort.
“Fine,” I relent, already warming to the idea of being out instead of stuck in my own head. “Okay. Yeah.”
Luca claps a hand on my shoulder, firm and satisfied, like he’s just negotiated a trade. “Good. I’ll text you.”
I watch him walk off.
When I’m showering later, I do a mental inventory of my closet. Jeans. T-shirt.
No. Jeans and a polo.
Maybe the navy one.
I let the hot water pound into my shoulders and exhale slowly. Trying to talk myself out of overthinking this, but it’s basically muscle memory at this point. Overthinking is what I do best.
"It’s just a night out," I murmur to the tile wall. "It doesn’t mean anything."
Like Luca said earlier, I haven’t gone out in forever. Haven’t tried to meet someone. Haven’t had the desire to meet someone. Call it lack-of-interest, call it laziness…
I’m not some sex-crazed animal, but I’m also not a monk, no matter what that jackass says. The man gets himself engaged and suddenly he’s the Dalai Lama of relationships?
I’ve always been reserved.
Kind of quiet.
Not shy exactly, but not the kind of guy who dominates a room. Growing up with two headstrong sisters will do that to you. You learn patience. You learn respect. You learn how to keep your voice calm and your hands to yourself even when someone is screaming about a stolen sweater or threatening bodily harm over hair product.
It also made me good at reading people. Made me aware of the space I take up in the world. How to be thoughtful. How to be polite. How to listen.
And sometimes?
It made me completely invisible.
I never really minded. I was the steady one. The reliable one. The guy moms loved and girlfriends trusted. But sometimes I wonder if all that carefulness makes me hard to see.
I pull on a pair of clean boxers and cross to my dresser.
Okay. Navy polo. Jeans that actually fit. Deodorant. The expensive cologne I bought myself when we were playing in Sweden…
I swipe it once across my chest and once at the base of my throat.
Awesome.
“Go have fun, you boring motherfucker.”
Grabbing my wallet, keys, and phone from the dresser, I give myself one last once-over.
The shirt fits. My hair isn’t doing anything too tragic. I look like someone who might, on a good night, be flirted with in a dimly lit bar.
Cool.
I open the bedroom door, expecting the hallway to be empty—but of course it isn’t, because the universe is a cruel and petty bitch.
Poppy is standing there.
Dressed up.
Wearing heels, high-waisted jeans, and a white long sleeve tee that does absolutely nothing to hide the fact that she is, without question, the most attractive person I’ve ever seen in my entire life.
Her hair is done. Shiny. Bouncy like a shampoo commercial.
My pulse kicks up. My mouth goes dry. And my body reacts before my thoughts can catch up.
Christ.
She’s my roommate.
"Hey," her glossy lips say as she blinks her long lashes at me. They’re black and the longest I’ve ever seen.
"Hey." I immediately forget how to formulate sentences.
She glances at my outfit. I glance at hers.
My eyes catch the shape of her narrow hips, the dip of her waist. Her slim, brown belt.
Her boobs.
"You heading out?" I ask, trying to sound casual.
“I am.” Her head tilts. “You?”
“Yeah.” I swallow. “You look nice.”
Gorgeous, in fact.
My roommate dips her head as if she’s embarrassed by my compliment. “Thanks. You look nice, too. Is it a date?”
The air between us shifts as she waits for my reply.
It’s heavy.
Electric.
We might both crackle if either of us takes a step closer.
“Uh—no. I’m going out with friends.”
She tilts her head slightly, her earrings catching the light. Her eyes—big, dark, unreadable—stay on mine longer than they should.
“Me too,” she says softly. “Nova and some friends. Sort of a welcome-to-town thing.”