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do.” She pokes at her leg and I get distracted by a small freckle in the center of her thigh.
Her shorts are so short, and my eyes follow the freckle, up to another one, to another one. It’s like the brown speckles have aligned perfectly to form a trail to the edge of her shorts. It’s only human nature to follow the dots.
She turns slightly and looks at her own ass and thighs. “But I like to keep some things the way they are.”
I’m sweating.
I may pass out from the rise in temperature induced by the pushing of her ass out slightly, subtly. And because now I’m staring at the back of her thighs. Her hand grabs a chunk of her own flesh of her ass and she looks at me.
I look away, I have to.
I should speak.
I should say something cool back to her.
Problem is, I can’t think of anything remotely cool to say, and I don’t want her to think that I’m thinking that she’s thinking . . .
Dammit, I’m overthinking again.
“Especially when I bake for a living and a hobby,” she continues, as if she had not just discombobulated my brain. “I would rather go without Wi-Fi than sweets.” She turns back to me, and somehow I manage to not return to the freckles on the front of her thighs.
Her declaration is serious and I can tell by the way she’s bugging her eyes out and pursing her lips that she means business.
I almost pretend that I’m one of those trendy techy people who immediately ask for the Wi-Fi password wherever they go, but after last night, I don’t have the energy to pretend much of anything.
“You make it sound like this is life or death,” I tease.
She grins at me wholeheartedly . . . and then I make a U-turn in our conversation: “Second thing, part B: if you want to talk about Dakota, we can.”
Nora shoots me an annoyed glare. I ignore it. I want her to know that I’m not one of those guys who doesn’t tell you what’s on his mind and makes you guess, and by the time you figure it out, you’ve already forgotten what the problem was in the first place. That guy is not me.
I was raised by a single mom, and I credit her for my communication skills.
I don’t just swallow half-truths, and I don’t give them out. I wouldn’t just leave with my ex and not want to explain everything to the girl I was actually on a date with. I don’t want her to create this version of me that she thinks she knows. I want her to base her opinion of me on facts and good experiences.
But so far, I haven’t given her a great example of what type of man I am. I wipe out the pan and spray the nonstick spray onto the nonstick surface. Neither product actually works completely, but still, only half of my meals get stuck to the bottom of the pan. That’s a win, the way things go for me.
“Come on,” I say, trying to guide her into the conversation.
Nora eyes me tentatively. “Since I get the feeling that you aren’t going to let this go, I’ll talk about how insane it is that she’s my roommate and you’re Tessa’s roommate. Talk about a small fucking world.”
She tilts her head back and shakes it.
It is such a small world—too small, if you ask me. I’m so curious as to how it could be possible that my ex-girlfriend ended up rooming with my . . . friend Nora.
“How did you meet her? If she’s in the ballet academy and you’re a baker—”
Nora’s neck rolls and she holds up her hand. “I’m not a baker. I’m a chef.”
Her tone lets me know that she gets that a lot and she doesn’t care for the generalization. Oops.
“Anyway,” Nora continues, “my old roommate from college, Maggy, posted an online ad for a third. Dakota showed up one day with one bag around her arm and the biggest attitude I’ve ever seen.”
I can tell by the face she’s making that she regrets saying this in front of me. “No offense,” she
