“Oh my God, yes!” No. “Come in,” I said, reaching for one of his duffle bags. “Just tired, you know, finishing up with the unpacking and -” The bag thunked to the ground as soon as he relinquished it, taking my shoulder with it. I grunted and stumbled.
“Whoa there!” he laughed. “Sorry about that.” Jordan dropped the other duffle beside the first.
“Well,” he said, running his hand back through his curls, which had lost some puff and gained some shine, “This is—I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this. Really.”
“No, no, I’m the one who’s grateful,” I babbled. “Well, to Kiera and to you. This could have turned out to be really shitty for me, but…” I let my eyes take in the whole new-and-improved Jordan package one more time “but it didn’t.”
“Same,” he said, flashing that white grin at me again. “Uh, speaking of Kiera—would you mind shooting her a text to let her know I got here? It’s already five and I kind of want to get unloaded and parked before dark.”
“Yeah. I’ll keep the door open,” I said, before he turned and left to get some more of his stuff. With wide eyes and a shaking head, I punched in a call to Kiera. My head whirred while I listened to the phone ring.
“Hey, Lizzie!” she practically sang into the phone when she picked up. “Did JJ make it to your place?”
“He goes by JJ now?” I asked.
“Yeah. Didn’t I tell you that?”
I could tell by the way she asked that she was probably trying to watch a TV show and paint her nails at the same time she was holding a conversation with me. “No, you didn’t tell me that. You also didn’t tell me that he’s so…”
“What? Annoying? Cocky? Self-satisfied? Biggest head in the tri-state area?”
“Tall,” I substituted, trying to collect my thoughts. “And he seems perfectly friendly.”
Kiera scoffed. “Of course he’s tall. You haven’t seen him in six years. He hit a late growth spurt. And you think he’s friendly? Just wait.”
What, so now he wasn’t friendly? She’d sworn up and down that he’d be a great roommate just a few days ago . “What did you get me into, Kiera?” I practically growled. “You told me I’d be fine with him living here.”
“Oh my God, no, nothing serious. Just, you know. Jordan being a total obnoxious dweeb of a big brother, like he’s always been. You know I love him. Nothing new. Just don’t bug him and he won’t bug you, I’m sure.”
“Okay. He’s just…he, um…he also got his braces off,” I finished lamely.
“Lizzie. Yes. He no longer wears braces. He’s a twenty-five-year old man. What’s so surprising about that?”
That was when I heard his footsteps coming back up the stairs. “Maybe this place was available at the last minute because the elevator’s busted,” he called from one flight down. When he got to the top, though, I saw that he was smiling. “Good thing I’m an engineer. If I can fix it, maybe they’ll take some off our rent, huh?”
Ah. So there was a little bit of that cockiness.
“Gotta go, Kiki,” I breathed into the phone. She clicked off the call before I even finished the sentence.
“She didn’t have time to say hi to me, huh?” Jordan said, grunting as he dropped a box right inside his bedroom door.
“No, and actually,” I said, flashing him my most winning job-interview smile, “neither do I. You gonna be okay doing this unloading? I have a dinner date.”
“Really,” Jordan said, his eyebrows tenting up. “You must be pretty popular around here. Thought you and what’s-his-face broke up like a week ago. Was there like a line of guys waiting for you, or something?” I didn’t miss the quick up-down look he gave me as I bent at the knees to pick up my handbag.
I’d grown up quite a bit in six years, too, I realized. I’d figured out how to get rid of the stubborn frizz and flyaways that plagued my hair, found out which jeans made my ass look great without cutting off my circulation, learned about flattering vs. Drag queen-esque makeup, and grown a couple of cup sizes. Realizing all that gave me a burst of confidence, and I looked into his eyes while flashing him a giant smile. “With my old roommates,” I said. “I’ve gotta get the keys back to them, and it’s ladies’ night at our favorite sushi place.”
“Cool,” Jordan said, moving back toward the door. “Well, if I crash before you get home…”
“See you tomorrow,” I said, as breezily as I could manage, with a brush of my fingertips against his shoulder.
I sincerely hoped he was crashed out by the time I got home, I thought as I ducked into the Uber I ordered on my way down the stairs. I didn’t think I wanted to know what slightly-tipsy Elizabeth Palmer would do when faced with a newly-hot Jordan Jacobs now living just one door away.
Just like old times.
Chapter 3
Jordan
Chill the fuck out, JJ. It was just Elizabeth Palmer. Generic, insipid, self-involved Lizzie P from Bertram Public High.
It turned out that if you fast-forwarded six years that little Lizzie Palmer turned totally fucking hot. Somehow the visual confirmation had hit me like a Mack truck, probably. I could hardly believe it, but something about seeing her again had my knees slightly weak. A cliché, but one hundred percent true.
* * *
Before I could think twice, I picked up my phone to text Kiera.
* * *
Jordan: You didn’t tell me about Lizzie.
Kiera: Didn’t tell you what? What did she do? She wasn’t a crying mess, was she?
Jordan: No. Not at all.
Kiera: Please don’t tell me that you are also surprised that she’s aged six years.
Jordan: …what does that mean? “Also?”
Kiera: …
Kiera: …
Kiera: Nothing.
Jordan: She’s just different. You’re right. Nothing.
Kiera: Okay big guy. Whatever you say.
* * *
Dammit. I could practically hear my kid sister teasing me from all the way across the state. She was probably singing the “Lizzie and JJ, sittin’ in a tree” song in her head.
It only took another hour to haul the rest of my stuff up from the car. From the looks of Liz’s boxes, she’d had a whole truckload of shit, and I felt damn proud of myself for keeping my possessions so minimal.
That observation only helped me take my thoughts on Lizzie back to acceptable territory the next time they strayed. She may have gotten hotter, and there may have been an undeniable spark between us when we saw each other again, but that didn't mean that it was going to be a good idea in any sense of the term to develop a crush on my new roommate, for God's sake.
Not to mention that there was absolutely nothing to indicate that she'd changed at all from when I'd known her in high school.
Still, my traitorous brain kept arguing with me. She'd graduated with a B.A. from UPenn—an Ivy League college. She couldn't have done that if she was brainless. And even though her dad worked for the biggest newspaper in Pittsburgh, she'd probably had to do something at least a little impressive to get an internship at Philly Illustrated in this economy.
I reminded myself as I sweated up and down the stairs, and then through the annoying process of putting sheets on my bed and locating my comforter, that none of it meant anything. I’d dated my fair share of girls at Stanford, and slept with a good handful. I was picky, too. I'd taken the smartest girls in our dorm out to dinner, bought drinks for only the brightest rising stars in the pre-med and pre-law programs. The reason I hadn’t had a long term relationship with any of them was simple – none of them held my attention long enough. At the same time, I’d never dated anyone that made me feel like I could let my guard down. I wanted someone who interested me and made me feel at home, all at the same time. Though I was convinced it would happen eventually, at only twenty-five years old, I hadn’t yet felt the need to rush into anything serious. What were the chances that I was moving in with the one girl who would be any different?
Actually, maybe I could get a quick workout in now.
The whole time I jogged a few blocks' perimeter around my new place, I reminded myself that girls were a distraction, especially girls who wanted more of my time than I was willing or able to give them. Every time I thought that, though, another pesky image pushed rationality away. First, the silky swish of Lizzie's hair as it was freed from the strap of my duffel bag. The scent of it as it brushed against my shoulder. That smile, so bright and wide and, hell, beautiful now that she didn't have braces anymore.
Dammit. I could not have a crush on my roommate. Could. Not.
I sweated through some bicep curls and grunted out a couple hundred sit ups, the whole time trying to purge the image of the way Liz's tits peeked out of the upper hem of her shirt, just enough for me to see the very tops. The hundred pushups I did had no effect on the persistent picture of the tulip-curve of her hips in those form fitting jeans.
When I gave up and stripped down to shower, my dick sprung out of my shorts like Lizzie was spread out naked on my bed, wanting me, instead of just a fully-clothed picture in my mind. I groaned as I pulled the curtain shut, grateful that Liz had a plastic liner set up between it and the highly-stainable fabric, and took my dick in hand.
We'd only talked face to face for a few minutes, but hell if it wasn't enough to jack off to. I thanked heaven and all the angels that Lizzie wasn't home as I gripped myself in earnest, letting my thumb flick over the head and slide that little bit of precum all the way down my shaft. I imagined what that shiny-soft honey-colored hair would feel like brushing down over my stomach and pooling over my balls, how I could slide my fingers through it and grip her scalp gently as she took me in her mouth. Would I be able to smell its intoxicating perfume while she wrapped those perfect lips around me, licking and sucking like I was the most delicious thing she'd ever tasted?
Just the thought of it got me twice as hard, and I hadn't even soaped up yet. I unhanded myself just long enough to get some suds going, but when the memory of her voice popped into my head, so much deeper than the little-girl tone I remembered, I was right back in my own fantasy world. I could picture exactly how hot it would be for her to suck me off - she'd get an incredible rhythm going and work me over till I was nearly out of my mind. And then, when I finally slid inside her - those golden-brown and green eyes sparkled in that way that just made a guy want to look straight into them when he came, and her long, smooth neck would be incredible for nibbling right up until the moment that I was almost at my peak. More than that, Lizzie wasn't the kind of girl that made you want to shoot off and then roll over and say goodnight to.
No. I knew from the second she spoke to me, Liz had grown into the kind of woman who saw what she wanted and grabbed it like it had been hers all along. And in this shower fantasy, right here, right now, what that gorgeous girl wanted was me. Not just my dick in her mouth, but my body working inside hers, rasping against every ridge and playing across every tiny, miraculous muscle in that tight little channel of hers like a goddamn grand piano.
I felt myself harden even more against my palm, and I groaned at the thought of how wet she would feel under my fingers as I reached between us to thumb at her. That would be when she'd start to beg.
I imagined her heels digging into my calves and her nails piercing the skin of my back. God, I was almost there. I'd give her everything I had and then some, because holy Christ, I couldn't remember wanting anything as bad as I wanted her..
If anyone had told me jerking off could be better than half the real-life sex I'd had with actual women, I would have called them an idiot. But in that moment, I realized it was possible.
Apparently, all I had to do was imagine getting into bed with my kid sister's best friend.
Interesting, considering those partners of mine were so educated in human biology, and I was only barely acquainted with the all-grown-up and impossibly curvy Elizabeth Harriet Palmer.
I found a clean towel, wrapped it around my waist, and hastily swiped some of the steam off the mirror. I took a good look at my reflection - bags under my eyes from a long drive, sagging shoulders sore from hauling all that shit up three flights of stairs, an impromptu workout, and, of course, fucking myself silly in my brand new shower. I gave my reflection a withering look. "Nice job, Jacobs. You're eighteen years old again, huh?"
It didn't make much sense to me why the image of someone I'd just seen for the first time in six years would do a better job of getting me off than a real live girl. What I knew for sure, though, was that in my imagination had to be the only place I got to fuck Lizzie. I could not lose this apartment, because you couldn't be homeless and do well in the PhD. program at UPenn, and if we started dating and things got weird, I had to imagine that Liz kicking me out of our place would follow soon enough. Hell, my sister would probably drive out just to help her kick both my butt cheeks at once.
Luckily, I’d managed to exhaust myself enough that I drifted off into a dark, dreamless sleep. Seemed like I had more than one thing to thank Lizzie for today.
Chapter 4
Liz
“You want me to do WHAT?"
My first day at Philly Illustrated was not turning out to be the sunshine-filled dreamland I had, well, dreamed it would be.
"Listen, honey, you know we hired you as a favor to your dad, right? I mean, not that you're not qualified, but...."
This woman was dressed like a freaking Chico's catalog with a bit of fortune-teller chic thrown in for variety, yet she gave me the disdainful up-and-down eye raking that someone would normally give a prostitute that crashed a posh country club. I bit down on my lip, trying to quell any tears or curse words from breaking free.
"No, I know, and I'm totally willing to do anything. Honestly, I figured I'd be working on a story about garbage collectors or something...
"Yeah, but stories about garbage collectors don't fulfill this little affiliate piece we promised we'd write with funding from Cosmo. Now do they?"
I should have been grateful for the opportunity to write a piece for Philly Illustrated, a struggling but marginally well-known Philadelphia lifestyle publication, with Cosmo's name on it. It was just that the idea of it was so...smarmy.
"Listen, honey, you're cheap. Okay?”
My brow furrowed at her. I hoped I didn’t live to regret being so transparent with my emotions.
Luckily, Monica didn’t seem to notice. She shook her head, waving her manicured shiny-red talons in the air at me dismissively. “Not like a slut, that's not what I'm saying."
Thanks for that.
"It’s just that we can't afford to hire another new girl specifically for this project, and all our writers are either dating, married, or gay. You can't expect me to assign the story about dating in Philly to one of them, now can you?"
Monica was my supervisor in my shiny new staff writer position at Philly Illustrated. She was excellent at steamrolling newbies into agreement with her before they even saw it coming.
I struggled to find words. "I guess not, but I -"
"And you told me yourself in our little chat over coffee that you and your boyfriend had just broken up, and I figured when you didn't flood your goddamn latte with tears of despair, you'd be okay maybe branching out a little bit. Aren't you? Four months of dates on us! Who knows, if you meet Mr. Right maybe we can spin it into sponsorships! Engagement rings! Wedding dresses! Free honeymoons! You could be just like Philly's own discount bachelorette!"
The image clarified in my mind - Liz Palmer, B-list Bachelorette
of Philadelphia. Great.
I could see how Monica had gotten a job like this now, managing a magazine whose stories, realistically, barely passed as "journalism." Every sentence out of her mouth was like a freight train, and you either had to grab on to survive or get the hell out of the way. Without really realizing what I was doing, I bobbed my head at her words.
Even though I didn't agree with this idea. Not one bit.
"Okay, but it's not just dating, right?" I said. "The readers are gonna choose the guys I date?"
"We'll vet every choice first, honey. It'll be fine."
I'd only worked at this magazine for six hours, but my mind was already running wild imagining what Monica's idea of vetting someone was. If I was going to be Philly's discount bachelorette - which, yuck - then the guys she was going to choose would be discount bachelors - ridiculous caricatures of America's single men, specifically chosen to get readers to buy the slim daily paper.
Oh my God. This was going to be awful.
"Well..." I said, trying hard to infuse my voice with confidence in Monica's choices. "Could I get a seat at the vetting table?"
"Sure, honey. But listen. I just want you to focus on having fun and writing fabulous stories about these guys. Everything will be perfectly safe. Our girl Deanna will be with you taking pictures, okay?”
“Pictures? But I…”
“Enjoy yourself! Nice meals out on the town and maybe we can even get you set up with some cute outfits! Jewels, maybe! This is every single girl's dream, and you're gonna be the one to live it and write about it!"
Maybe Monica somehow had her finger on the pulse of every single girl's dream, but if that was true, then I was definitely a freak among my people. Besides the fact that I still hated thinking about myself as a single girl - with all my old college friends already light years ahead of me, settling into lifelong relationships or on the fast track to dream careers, this just made me feel pathetic. Like a sad, sad freak who was going to have to put herself on dating display for all of Philadelphia because she couldn't find another job, because she'd only gotten this one as a favor to her semi-powerful Daddy on the other side of the state.
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