by Regina Kyle
No, I didn’t. But leave it to Brie to get the guy’s life story within ten minutes of meeting him.
“I took the room across from yours,” she went on. “I hope that’s okay.”
“Uh, yeah. Of course.” Really, what difference does it make what room she’s in? I’m going to be hyperaware of her no matter where she sleeps. “Listen, before you finish unpacking, there’s something I have to tell you.”
“Let me guess. You’re kicking me out already.”
“No, nothing like that,” I assure her. “I saw Jake this morning.”
“Wow, he’s in early. Usually he and Ainsley aren’t vertical until after nine.”
TMI. I do not want to be talking about my best friend’s sex life with his little sister. “Yeah, well, he got your note.”
“Good.”
“No, not good. You neglected to mention where you were going.”
“I wasn’t sure you’d let me stay. I’ll text him now. If I can find my phone in this mess.”
“Too late. He already knows.”
“You told him?” she asks, he voice rising an octave.
“I didn’t have much choice.” I throw the pen back down. The constant clicking used to drive my teachers crazy, and it’s even bothering me now. “He’s worried about you. Your parents, too.”
“Jake’s worried about my parents?”
“No, your parents are worried about you. Jake called them looking for you. They’ve been trying to reach you.”
“Oh. Crap. I didn’t mean to scare anyone.”
“I know. Just do yourself a favor and call your family before your mother alerts the authorities.”
“She really needs to stop watching Forensic Files.”
I chuckle despite myself. “Your brother said the same thing.”
“I’ll call her. Jake, too. Thanks for the heads-up.”
I lean back in my chair and stare out the window at the street below. A bike messenger whizzes past, darting around the rush hour traffic. “You’re not mad at me?”
“Why would I be? You did what you had to do to keep my family from going into full-on Dateline mode.” I hear the dull thud of a box hitting the floor, followed by the sound of cardboard against cardboard. “Unless it’s for the shocking lack of food in your refrigerator. I didn’t realize man could exist on avocados and almond butter alone.”
Damn. I’m embarrassed. My fridge is usually better stocked than that. I’m not some stereotypical bachelor, subsisting on take-out and frozen pizza. I care about what I put into my body. But I’ve had a crazy busy week. And it’s not like I knew I was going to have a roommate until, oh, say, three hours or so ago.
“I’ll stop at Whole Foods on the way home.”
“No worries. Before Ainsley, Jake and I used to use a delivery service. I’ll call them and get some stuff sent over. Maybe even make dinner for you tonight.”
I thought picturing her in the shower was bad, but that’s got nothing on the images swimming in my brain now. Brie hovering over a pot on the stove. In a frilly apron. And nothing else. It’s disturbingly both domestic and erotic at the same time. Weird. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know I don’t. But I want to. I told you, I’m a good cook. I make a mean vegetarian lasagna.”
“You’re vegetarian?” I ask, surprised. I swore off animal flesh after I watched that documentary on how the meat industry is killing the planet. But I’m pretty sure I saw Brie with a burger in her hand at the Lawson’s annual Fourth of July picnic last summer.
“No. But you are.”
Wow. She remembered. I’m surprised. And strangely flattered.
“I usually don’t get home until after ten,” I lie. I’m not sure why. Maybe because this is getting uncomfortably personal. I’ll never be able to keep her at arm’s length if she’s playing happy homemaker, cooking me dinner and catering to my personal preferences.
“No worries. That’s the beauty of lasagna. Easy to reheat. Just text when you’re on your way and I’ll have it ready for you.”
“Don’t you have to work?” I ask, suddenly remembering the new job that’s supposedly the reason for her change of address. Or, at least, the reason she gave to sucker me into taking her in.
“I’m not on the call sheet until Thursday. That’s why I picked today to move. Gives me a couple of days to get settled before I have to be on set.”
I hear a crash, then a long, plaintive meow and a muffled curse. “Get out of there, Mirri. And Ajani, don’t let him give you any ideas. I’m watching you, too.”
“He’s a she. They both are.” Their names are on their ID tags. But not their gender.
“Oops. Sorry about that, ladies.”
Brie giggles, and the sound shoots straight to my stupid cock, which I will to stand down. Otherwise I’ll wind up with a tent in my pants the size of Barnum and Bailey’s, and I’m fairly certain jerking off in the executive washroom is against company policy.
“I should have warned you that I had pets.” Which I would have, if I hadn’t been in such a damn rush to get out of there. “I hope you’re not allergic.”
“Nah, I’m cool with cats. Just not messing with my stuff when I’m trying to unpack.”
“Yeah, they love to go where they don’t belong. Especially if there’s boxes involved. And don’t let them try to convince you they’re hungry. I topped off their automatic feeder this morning.”
“Will do. I mean, won’t do.” Another crash, and more meows and mumbled swearing. “I’d better go finish putting this stuff away before they destroy everything I own. Don’t forget to text me when you’re heading home so I can heat up the lasagna.”
“I told you, you don’t have to—”
But it’s useless. She’s hung up, and I’m left preaching to a three-person choir.
Me, myself, and I.
CHAPTER FOUR
Brie
I MAY HAVE exaggerated my culinary skills.
Okay, so I’ve never made vegetarian lasagna. I’ve never made any lasagna. Except the kind that comes out of a box that you just stick in the oven. And even then, the first time I made it I didn’t realize you had to put a baking sheet under it and it leaked all over the place.
But I can read. And like my mom always says, if you can read, you can cook.
Let’s hope she’s right.
I grab the hand towels I’m using as oven mitts since I couldn’t find any anywhere in the restaurant-quality kitchen I doubt Connor’s ever used and gingerly open the oven door. It smells great. Tangy and spicy and tomato-y—if that’s a word—like a lasagna should. I think. That’s a good sign, isn’t it?
I grab the edges of the baking sheet—I’m not making that mistake twice—pull it out of the oven, and set it carefully on the stove top, hip-checking the door closed. My lasagna looks a little, um, crunchier around the edges than the one in the picture next to the recipe I found on the internet, but I chalk that up to the few extra minutes I let it cook after the timer went off. I’d rather have crispy edges than lasagna soup.
I’m about cut into it and do a taste test when I hear a lock click and the front door swing slowly open. I run to the entryway, knife still in hand, not sure what I’m going to do with it or who I’m going to find there. It’s not even eight. Way too early for it to be Connor.
But it is. His eyes go wide behind the frames of his dark-rimmed glasses and he drops his briefcase to put his hands up in an I-surrender gesture when he sees the knife I’m brandishing at him.
“Am I going to get this welcome home every night?” he asks, eyeing the knife warily. “Because if I am, I take back my invitation.”
I lower the knife. “In my defense, I thought you were a burglar. You told me you weren’t going to be home until after ten.”
“I, uh, left early.” He looks everywhere but a
t me, and I’m starting to think he was less than truthful about his working hours. “Figured it was the least I could do if you were making the effort to cook for me.”
“Well, you’re timing is perfect. I was just about to dig in.”
“Great.” He reaches down to pet one of the cats, who’s come out of hiding and is winding around his legs. I think it’s Ajani. Or maybe it’s Mirri. Their coloring is similar, and I can’t read her name tag from here. “Give me a few minutes to take a quick shower, and I’ll join you.”
He disappears down the hall, Ajani—or Mirri—following at his heels, and I retreat to the kitchen. I’ve barely had time to plate two generous portions of lasagna when he returns, sans cat. He’s in grey sweats and an Avengers T-shirt that clings to his damp pecs, his feet bare and his hair, wet from the shower, curling around his ears.
I’ve seen guys in way less. Actors doing quick changes in the wings. Movie stars in their skivvies on the backlot. Hell, just last week I shot a commercial with a half-naked NHL hottie who I can’t name because I signed a non-disclosure agreement. But none of them made my pulse pound or my palms itch like they’re doing now.
Maybe it’s the gray sweats. They’re a thirst phenomenon, amiright? Just tight enough and light enough that you can see the outline of a guy’s package. And from what I can tell, what Connor’s sporting under there is pretty damned impressive.
He runs his hand through his slick hair, blissfully unaware that I’m checking him out and inhales. “Smells great.”
Hopefully it’ll taste as good as it smells. His earlier-than-expected arrival means I didn’t have time to sample the goods before deciding whether to serve the damn thing or throw it in the trash and call for take-out.
He pulls out a high-backed stool at the marble-topped kitchen island and sits. I mentally cross my fingers and slide a plate across to him. Then I hold my breath as he cuts into the square of lasagna with the side of his fork and lifts it to his mouth.
“Not bad,” he says finally, after what seems like an eternity of thoughtful chewing. “Do I detect a hint of basil?”
“Yes. And oregano. Neither of which you had in your sad excuse for a spice rack, so I ordered some with the groceries.”
“Sorry. My cooking’s kind of basic. Salt and pepper are pretty much the only seasonings I use on the regular.”
He takes another bite, and I’m transfixed by the way his jaw muscles work. I’ve never found chewing a turn on before. But I swear, I’m getting hot and bothered by watching him eat. It’s like now that my brother’s best friend who I’ve known almost since I was in diapers has suddenly registered on my sexual radar, I’m finding every damn thing he does suggestive. Even something as mundane and normally borderline disgusting as chewing.
He swallows—yes, that’s sexy, too, dammit, the way his Adam’s apple slowly bobs in the strong column of his tanned throat—and licks his lips. And before you ask, that’s fucking sexy as hell, too. Maybe even the sexiest thing he’s done yet. It’s got me thinking about what I want to do with those lips. And what I want them to do to me. Damn, at this rate I’m going to need an ice bath before I even get to the main course.
“I take it back.” He tips his head back, closes his eyes, and moans, like he’s entered nirvana. “This is better than not bad. It’s fantastic. I can’t tell you the last time someone cooked for me.”
“What about what’s-her-name? Your fiancée?” I dole salad into two wooden bowls and pass one to him, along with a bottle of Italian dressing. “She didn’t cook?”
He spears a cherry tomato and pops it into his mouth. “Number one, her name is Giselle. Number two, she was my girlfriend, not my fiancée. And number three, hell, no. She was more comfortable in the classroom than the kitchen.”
I pour us each a glass of wine—an expensive looking merlot I found in the fancy floor-to-ceiling wine rack—sit opposite him, and dig into my lasagna. “The classroom?”
“She’s a professor. Teaches at philosophy at Columbia. That’s where we met. She was working on her dissertation when I was finishing up my master’s.” He puts his fork down and sips his wine. “Why are we talking about my ex?”
“Isn’t that what roommates do? Dish about their love lives over dinner?”
“I don’t hear you dishing about yours.”
“We’ll get to me.” Not. “But right now we’re talking about you.”
I don’t know why I’m so interested in his extracurricular activities. Strike that. I do. We’re going to be living together. I’m entitled to know whether I should expect overnight guests. The last thing I want is to walk in on one of his, uh, conquests in the bathroom. It’s definitely that and not because I want to know if he’s seeing anyone so I can check out the competition.
He shrugs and takes another sip of his wine. “There’s not much to talk about.”
“What do you mean?” He’s a total catch. Smart. Rich. Hotter than the ever-loving sun. He must have women falling all over themselves to get with him.
He shrugs and sips again. “I just got out of a long-term relationship. The last thing I’m looking for is to get involved with someone else.”
“Who said anything about getting involved?” I ask through a mouthful of pasta. It’s like I’m trying my hardest to be unappealing. But dammit, I’m hungry. My stomach is reminding me that I was too busy unpacking to eat anything all day. “I’m talking about some between the sheets action. A little bow-chika-wow-wow. S-E-X.”
With me.
He almost chokes on his lasagna and reaches for his wine glass, chugging what’s left to wash it down.
Shit. Did I say that last part out loud? I really need to learn how to keep my inner monologue on the inside.
“I’m not in the market for a fuck buddy at the moment, either.”
My heart rate slows down a hair. If I said the last bit out loud, and if he heard me, he’s not acknowledging it. Which suits me just fine. Two can play the avoidance game.
“Why not?” I press. Just because I dodged a bullet doesn’t mean I’m abandoning the subject. I just have to be more careful about what comes out of my mouth. I push away my half-full wine glass and hop off my stool to get some water from the dispenser on the refrigerator door. Can’t be too cautious.
He cuts himself another healthy-sized square of lasagna and refills his wine glass, apparently not as concerned with committing an alcohol-induced slip of the lip as I am. “Are we seriously talking about this?”
“It’ll be quicker and far less painful if you answer and get it over with. Like ripping off a bandaid.”
He shoots me a skeptical look over the rim of his glass but answers anyway. “Would you believe me if I said I prefer to get to know a girl before sleeping with her?”
“So go out. Get to know one.” Or two. Or ten. Who am I to judge what he’s into?
Then again, he could always stay in and get to know the one who’s sleeping in the next bedroom...
I give myself a mental bitch slap. I promised him I’d be Blue-Man-Group level quiet. Unobtrusive. Practically invisible. Not some creepy stalker who wants to play hide the cannoli.
Connor stares longingly at his lasagna. “You make it sound so easy.”
He says it so low I almost don’t hear him. And even though I did—each word, soft but distinct—I’m having a hard time believing what I think he’s saying. “Are you telling me you have trouble meeting women?”
“Not trouble, exactly. I just find the whole dating scene—distasteful. All the women at the club see is my money. And status. The whole on line thing is ridiculous. Nobody is who or what they say they are. And don’t even get me started on apps like Tinder and Bumble. They’re a whole new level of cringeworthy. I’m not some sex-obsessed swinger like my—”
He cuts himself off, but it doesn’t take a mind reader to know where he’s going. I might have only bee
n in elementary school at the time, but I remember overhearing my parents speaking in hushed tones after they thought Jake and I were asleep, whispering about “that douchebag Vincent Dow”—my father’s words—and how he was “screwing around on his sick wife” with a woman barely ten years older than his twelve-year-old son.
That relationship didn’t last—big surprise—but from the pictures I’ve seen of Connor’s dad in gossip mags—he’s some big-shot mystery/thriller writer, but I’m a happily-ever-after kind of gal so that suspense-y stuff is totally not my jam—his appetite for pretty young things hasn’t diminished over the years.
“How did you meet Giselle, then?” I ask, sensing Connor needs to be jolted out of his melancholy introspection.
He reaches for his wine glass, and I don’t blame him for needing a little liquid courage to deal with the shit that thinking of his dad must stir up. “Like I said, we were at Columbia together. But truth be told, I probably never would have gotten up the nerve to speak to her in the first place if it wasn’t for Jake.”
I arch a brow at him. “Do I want to hear this story? Or is it going to gross me out? Remember, that’s my flesh and blood you’re talking about. I don’t want to know if you were dating his sloppy seconds.”
“Give me a little credit. I’m not that desperate.” He takes one last bite of lasagna and pushes the half-eaten square away. “Jake convinced me to go to this frat party with him. Giselle was there. He saw me gawking at her, dragged me over, and forced me to introduce myself.”
“Now I get it. Jake’s your Angelica Schuyler. Or he was, until he and Ainsley got together.” With my brother off the market and spending every free second with Ainsley, Connor’s lost his wingman. He needs someone to help bring him out of his sexy shell.
“My what?”
I gape at him incredulously. “Don’t tell me you haven’t seen Hamilton.”
“Who’s got the time? Or an in to get tickets. Aren’t they sold out for months?”
“I’ve got a friend in the ensemble. I could hook you up with house seats.” They’re pricey, but he can afford them.