Me: Why?
Unknown: I want to know, obviously.
Me: Is this a booty call?
Damn if all my happy parts aren’t perking up now. Traitors.
Unknown: In the spirit of the brutal honesty in which we interact, yes. Yes, it is.
I laugh, too shocked not to. And a stupid grin pulls at my cheeks when I respond.
Me: Brownie points for that honesty, Baylor.
Unknown: Then give me the address, Jones. My list of semi-public places has grown thin. I’ve come up with janitor’s closets and bathroom stalls. Both unsavory. And I don’t want someone other than me seeing your gorgeous butt. I’d like to refrain from punching people, if possible.
I have to agree about the lack of privacy, although my brain’s stalled out on his reference to my butt. He thinks it’s gorgeous? Okay. I can do this. I can keep it about sex. Only sex. Awesome, hot, perfect…
Before I can talk myself out of it, I tap out my address. Sweat blooms along my skin the second I hit send.
My phone is quiet. For too long. Shit. When the text signal chimes again, my heart skips a beat.
Unknown: I’m on my way.
My heart promptly begins to race. And so do I. I practically slam down my phone as I fly into action, grabbing strewn clothes, trash, a sock, my ratty comfort bra, and a variety of other junk that’s cluttering the place. It all goes into the closet. Okay, I shouldn’t care what my place looks like. If I’m a slob, I’m a slob.
But I’m also a girl, and I’m not letting him see my place in any other condition than pristine.
I don’t know how far away he is; why didn’t I ask where he was? Skidding into the bathroom, I look myself over in the mirror. At least I don’t have a zit or anything. Which makes me think of George and his zit analogy. Fucking George.
I look all right, but Drew’s coming here for one thing, and I’m now slightly sweaty. I don’t have time to wash my hair so make do with washing my body, shaving all pertinent areas in record time and dashing butt-naked out of the shower and into my room. I stub my toe on the dresser.
“Fuck!” I’m hopping around on one foot as I tug on some yoga pants. The doorbell rings and I’m still half dressed. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
Grabbing a sweater hanging over my desk chair, I shove it over my head. A quick, frantic look down to check for stains—please don’t let there be stains—calms me somewhat; the sweater is a nice one, deep green and silk wool knit.
One second before I open the door, I pull out my hair tie and fling it into a far, shadowy corner of the living room.
And then Baylor’s standing before me, hands shoved in his pockets, short hair tousled as if he’s run his fingers through it. Golden eyes under straight dark brows, a little dimple on his left cheek, body to kill or die for. He makes my knees weak and my skin heat. Every damn time.
We stare at each other, him grinning, and me with my heart pounding like a kettledrum. Do we talk? Are we just supposed to go at it? I suppose I should invite him in first.
“Hey.” My stunningly witty opener.
“Hey, yourself.” His gaze runs over me. “You look pretty. Flushed,” he adds, his grin deepening, “but pretty.”
“Yeah well,” I stand back and wave him inside. “I’ve just run all over the house cleaning it so…” I shrug.
He laughs a little, walking into the center of the living room. God, but he’s tall. Without heels on, I’m an elf next to him.
“I’d say you were joking with me, Jones,” he turns and catches my eye, “but I know how honest you are.”
I bite back a smile and close the door. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Funny, I thought I was giving you a compliment.”
“Have we drifted into the compliment stage?” I’m a little too breathless, and I have no idea what to do with myself. So I’m stalling by being a moron.
“Jones, I’ve been giving you compliments since day one.” His voice is low and easy and it makes my toes curl into the carpet. “You just haven’t been paying attention.”
Taking a breath, I ask him the important question. “You want a drink?” Or do we just start fucking like bunnies?
I don’t even know what answer I’d prefer until he says, “A drink’s good.” Something in me eases a bit, when really I ought to be more agitated.
He follows me into the open kitchen, his eyes taking in everything, from the decorating by Ikea and secondhand furniture to Iris’s hot firemen of NYC calendar hanging on the dividing wall to the kitchen. “Nice place,” he says kindly. Because it isn’t that nice.
“We did what we could with my mom’s castoffs. Though some of it has seen better days.” I glance at the big brown sofa. “I think Mom got that thing when I was ten.”
“I did the same. When my parents…” He trails off, looking pained.
“When they what?”
He clears his throat, ducking his head as he gives the back of his neck a scratch. “Ah, when they died.”
My insides lurch on a jolt of prickly heat. “Your parents are dead?” Of course they are, he just said that, you idiot. “I mean… Hell, Drew, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
The corner of his mouth lifts in a weak attempt at a smile. “How could you be expected to know?”
“This is probably one of those common knowledge things about you, isn’t it?”
“Maybe. But then we both know you don’t follow football or my life.” He sounds oddly relieved about that.
“Did you,” I fight to keep my voice from wavering, “go live with your grandparents or relatives?”
He clutches the back of his neck again. “Naw. I don’t have any. It was just me and my parents.”
Jesus. All I can think is that he’s an orphan. Alone in life. And look at what he’s accomplished. It isn’t my business to feel it, but pride and admiration swell within me. Not that I can tell him that without it sounding patronizing.
“Drew, I am sorry,” I say. “That sucks.”
“Yeah. It does.” He doesn’t look at me.
“How…” I wince. “Never mind.”
“Nothing wrong with being curious, either.” A small, wry noise leaves him. “It happened the summer after I graduated high school. They were hiking in Colorado. A flash flood came and…It was… I don’t know. I mean, who the fuck expects something like that?”
No one. I want to hug him so badly that my arms ache. But I don’t think he’d appreciate the gesture. If it were me, I’d take it as pity. As if he’s worried about that very thing, he glances toward the kitchen. “Can I still have a drink?”
“Sure.” I snap out of my daze and move to the fridge. “Right.”
Baylor leans a hip against my breakfast bar.
“We’ve got,” I open the fridge and peer in, “One Blue Moon, bottled water, white wine, and orange juice.”
“I’ll take a water.” His stomach gives a loud and impatient gurgle. A flush washes over his cheeks and his mouth tips wryly. “Sorry.”
“Hungry?” I say, raising one brow.
“Almost always.” He doesn’t even try to make it sound like an innuendo. And yet somehow it does. Probably because I can’t be in the same room with Drew Baylor and not think about sex. But I behave as I open the fridge again and rummage through it.
“Okay, there’s cheesecake, two pieces of chicken satay, yogurt, though we really shouldn’t touch that or Iris will kill us…”
Behind me, Baylor twists open his water and takes a long drink before peering over my shoulder. “Iris? Your roommate, right?”
“The very one.” Every muscle in my body twitches at the close proximity of his. But I affect calm. “She’s on a Greek yogurt kick.”
“Ah.”
“There’s also…” I peek under an aluminum lid, “…ooh, kebobs.”
“Did you have a party or something?” His arms rest on the edges of the door, bracketing my shoulders, and I feel oddly sheltered.
“They’re from cat
ering gigs. The right to bring home left over food trays is one of the main reasons I took a job in the catering department. Iris and I save a boatload on our food budget.”
Baylor’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “I’m pretty sure you are every athlete’s dream roommate.”
I do not ask if that includes him, but turn back to the food. “Well? What will it be?”
“You’re really going to feed me?” He sounds surprised.
“Of course I am.” I shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “Or don’t you want me to?” Because I can take it back. I can simply lead him into my room and—
“No, I mean, yeah. I want it.” Baylor full-on blushes now. “Shit. Food. I mean—”
I laugh. “I know what you meant.”
He groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just make the kebobs.”
Still laughing, I pull out the container and a pack of eggs. “Okay, but I don’t do reheats. I like to think of leftovers more as raw material for new meals.”
His self-deprecation melts away, and he leans back against the counter. “What are you making me, Jones?”
“A frittata.” I grab a small hunk of Gouda that we actually do have left over from a party. “With cheese.”
“Sounds awesome.”
It’s surprisingly easy and fun with Baylor in the kitchen. He helps me free the meat and veggies from their skewers, and then I chop it all up into smaller sizes while he grates the cheese for me.
“You know how to cook,” he observes as I begin refrying the kabob pieces. The scent of onions and beef perfume the air.
“I’m proficient.” I whisk a bowl of eggs and pour it into the frying pan. “Growing up, it was just my mom and me, so I helped where I could.”
Four generations back, my mother’s family immigrated, not to New York with the rest of their Italian brethren, but to Georgia. But my father is pure Irish, and fresh-off-the-plane when he met my mother. Pictures of him as a young man paint him in tones of milk white and vivid orange. I ended up a physical blend of them with pale, ivory skin that tans but also freckles, dark green eyes and dark red hair.
I really don’t remember much of my dad now. Time has a way of fading the sharp edges of a person’s image. Unfortunately it also has a way of letting a wound fester and burrow deep beneath the skin.
“Iris is the real cook here,” I babble on. “She’s like a fifth generation Mexican-American, and her family owns this kick-ass Mexican restaurant in Tucson.”
Drew watches me push the eggs around. “What happened to your dad?” It’s a quiet question. Because he knows firsthand that my answer might be bad.
Is it? I’m fairly numb to the whole dad thing. Until I have to talk about it. A familiar lump of pain settles at the back of my throat. I ignore it and shrug. “Out of the picture since I was seven.”
Baylor is looking at me now. I focus on scattering the cheese over the half-cooked eggs and tossing the whole pan under the broiler. “There,” I say, “in a minute we’ll have a frittata.”
My voice is over-bright and too brittle. I shouldn’t have talked. I shouldn’t have cooked for him. This is a hook up, not some after-school tell-all. But it’s too late now. And he’s still watching me with eyes that are too knowing.
“Why is he out of the picture?” he asks softly.
I pull out two dishes and get the forks. “It’s a shitty story.”
“I told you my shitty story.” He sets the plates and forks out, one set next to the other. “Besides, I’m a great listener.”
While his job is to give orders and think fast, something about his calm demeanor and quiet strength makes me want to confide in him.
“When I was seven,” I say, “my father told my mother that he couldn’t handle parenthood, that I was too much of a pain in the ass, always whining for attention.” My smile is weak and wobbly. “His words.”
I turn and pull out the frittata, setting it down to cool on the stove. It’s golden brown and the cheese bubbles. I pick up a knife and hack at the frittata. “So, he went back to Ireland, and my mom raised me.”
Sometimes I wonder if my dad would have stayed if I hadn’t begged him not to leave. But I had. And he’d merely looked pained. After he left, I’d curled up under my bed. And my mother had done much the same. Only she had cried. I never did. I wouldn’t let myself.
A warm hand covers mine, and I still. Gently, Baylor relieves me of the knife before cupping the back of my neck. “You’re right,” he says. “That was a shitty story. And your father is a stupid, undeserving asshole.”
I study the floor. “What? No ‘you’re better off without him’?”
Baylor’s thumb strokes along my hairline. “But you know that already.”
“Yeah, I do.” I risk a glance at him. His expression is so serious, as if he’s hurting for me, when he’s the one who has no family left. Something deep within my heart clenches.
The gentle exploration of my neck doesn’t stop, and his voice drops low and tender. “Some people never understand the gift they have.” A light pressure on the back of my neck eases me closer to his warmth. “And some people wait a lifetime to have someone to love.”
Emotion wells up within me, and it’s warm, dizzying, choking. I want to burrow in and let him take my pain. He’s strong, maybe he can weather it. Oddly, I want to pull him close and hold him as if he is the one in pain. I don’t understand it. This isn’t light or fun. This is consuming me. A steady, relentless attack.
As we stare at each other, his lids lower and his head dips toward mine. My lips part and throb with the need to touch his. I want his taste, to draw his breath into me and let it fill my lungs.
His whisper brushes my cheeks. “Anna…”
The front door opens, and I spring back, nearly knocking the damn frittata off the stove. Drew puts a hand out to steady me, but I’m already turning toward Iris as she saunters into the apartment.
She stops short as she sees us, and George, who is following close behind, slams into her. “Damn, woman, give a little warning.” Abruptly, he stops talking, and they both gape at Drew.
Great. Iris I could have handled. George is another task entirely. And I know I’m going to pay when an obnoxious light gleams in his eyes. His voice is just shy of sing-song when he says, “Hey, Baylor. I’d say you were the last person I expected to see in Anna’s kitchen, but I’d be lying.”
Drew raises a brow at me, and I glare at George, who just smiles and steps forward, offering Drew a hand. “George Cruz.”
They shake hands in that hard, abrupt way guys do when they’re sizing each other up, and I roll my eyes.
“And this is Iris,” I say for my friend who simply standing there grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
Drew offers his hand to her. “The roommate who has excellent taste in parties.”
And Iris fucking titters. God, this is too weird. Baylor is too big for the kitchen, towering over all of us.
“Oh, hey is that food?” George makes a grab for the pan, and I slap his hand. He snatches it back, holding it to his chest. “Ay, woman! Share the love, eh?”
“Get your own.” I split the big frittata down the center and spoon half onto Drew’s plate. “Eat,” I tell him.
George is far from done whining. “But I’m hungry too. Why does he get some and I don’t?”
Iris coughs in her hand, going red. “You have to ask?”
Drew laughs, though his cheeks go a bit red too. He’s not stupid, however, and promptly tucks into his food.
George on the other hand, pouts. “Seriously, Banana? No food?”
Drew’s head snaps up, a smile spreading over his face. “Banana?”
“Yup.” Iris helps herself to a yogurt. “Anna Banana.”
“Her mom calls her that,” George puts in helpfully. “Anna has a ratty old stuffed banana hiding in her closet—”
I smack his head.
“Ow, damn!”
I cut a small slice of the remaining half
of the frittata, take it for myself then pass the rest to George, the ass. “Just take your ill-gotten gains and flee.”
He makes a happy sound and steals my fork.
Drew’s soaking it all in, and though his smile is large, there are shadows in his eyes. “So you guys know Anna well.”
Fishing.
Iris helps. “We’ve been together since freshman year.”
“Roommates,” George says around his mouthful of food.
Drew’s brows rise at that. “All of you?”
“Until George moved out last year for fear of ‘being overrun by estrogen.’” Iris makes a face. “His words, not mine.”
George nods to confirm, his expression lofty. “A man can only take so many feminine supplies in his bathroom before it’s time to cut and run.”
“I have my own bathroom, you tool,” I say.
“Yes. And you give me food. Now I’m wondering why I moved out.” Quick as a flash, George leans forward and lands a smacking kiss on my cheek. He’s fucking with Drew, seeing if he’ll care.
And it’s working. Drew’s expression goes completely neutral. He picks at his frittata before setting his fork down. “So… you guys…?”
He looks from George to me. Iris makes a horrified face, and George laughs. He’s a stinker, but he isn’t a jerk, and he puts Drew out of his misery. “This might be hard to believe, cuz you’re obviously into our girl, but the thought of doing anything with Anna kind of turns my stomach.”
“Ditto,” I snap back dryly, noticing that Drew looks way too pleased.
George grins at me. “She’s like the sister I never had.”
“Hey!” Iris gives his arm a punch. “I’m your sister!”
“No, you’re my twin. Totally different, 'Ris.”
“Whatever.”
As George and Iris debate whether there is a distinction between “twin” and “sister,” I lean in close to Drew. “Their constant bickering may have factored into George moving out.”
He chuckles and takes another bite. “This is good, by the way.” He glances at my plate. “You sure you have enough?”
I stop his move to offer me some of his with a touch to his hand. He’s warm, and I want entirely too much to twine my fingers with his and tug him out of here. I pull back.
The Hook Up (Game On Book 1) Page 8