“Done…and I’ve read your post.” She paused, as though the already intense moment needed a dramatic interlude. “So…Mr.Stone, your trusty vibrator, huh?”
“Sage!” I whisper-barked, wanting to reach through my cell phone and choke her. She had a ton of nerve teasing me at a time like this. The stress alone probably caused me to age forty years. I could feel the hair color on my dome change from vibrant blond to lowly gray. “Can you please just delete the damn thing?”
“Sure. But you really oughta see the thousands of comments. I mean, seriously. They alllovethe fact you have the hots for Lucas. Although some seem to think it’s a sneak-peek excerpt of a book you’re currently reading. A few are even asking about the release date forDear Diary Entry One,along with the name of the author, so they can add it to their Goodreads list.”
I couldn’t help but snicker. My followers. They, without a doubt, were hungry book whores in constant search of their next story to gobble up. It was right on point for them to think I’d shared a sneak peek into my current read.
“Yeah. I read some of their comments before I called you. It was how I found out about the post—the pings on my phone woke me. Now, can you please hurry up and delete it before anyone shares it on Facebook and Twitter?”
“Eight thousand forty-nine.”
“I’m sorry?” Her quirky ass often blurted out shit that didn’t make sense to me, or anyone with a pulse. “What’s that?”
“Shares, Macy,” she snapped as if annoyed thatSagewasn’t my first language. “Your diary post has that many shares already. Honestly, this could be your new thing.”
Really? My newthing? As if all of it didn’t have me dwindling inside, questioning my whole purpose in life.
“Delete it!”
3
I’d never been much of a gambler.
But the analyzer in me believed there was a better-than-average shot Lucas never caught sight of my professed love for him.
About an hour after Sage deleted bloggergate, I mustered enough courage to step out of the safety zone known as my bedroom. Sure it may have been chancy to deliberately come across Lucas so soon after the incident. Still, it had to be done in order to properly assess then control whatever damage it had caused.
I’d come up with a sensible plan. Sashay into the kitchen then casually evaluate whether or not his steely blues perused those drunken confessions. He had a morning routine. And at that specific time, I expected to find my crush perched on the counter, browsing ESPN headlines on his phone as he scarfed back a bowl of Corn Flakes, hair beautifully tousled, outfitted in nothing except PJ bottoms and that book-hero-worthy naked torso. Besides being so damn easy on the eyes, Lucas was also so damn easy to predict. I’d known the charmer since he was a kid. Witnessed him go through puberty. I knew when he was lying by the subtle shift in his scruff-dotted jaw, could determine if he was angry or annoyed via a single brow lift, even when he feigned otherwise. Point is, it felt like I knew him better than anybody.
All I needed was eye contact—a gander into his soul—to ascertain whether or not Lucas Stone had read my telltale blabber.
Rounding the hallway that led to our kitchen, something seemed way off.
The giveaway?
Silence.
Lucas almost always played music, background fluff to every and anything he did, a genre dedicated to each activity.
Take for instance mealtime—be it breakfast, lunch, or dinner—he fancied country music, his gruff voice lending a sexy twang while he hummed or sang along. During showers, Lucas’s prime choice was hip-hop; his rap-star articulation bouncing off the walls had a tendency to crack me up. And while doing chores around the house, heavy metal did it for him. Amusing as hell to watch while he, without fail, amped up his air-guitar romp.
Entering the kitchen, there was nothing. No sight of Lucas atop the counter. No evidence that I somehow missed what I’d witnessed every single day for the last five years.
Instead, quiet filled the space, save for the slow-dripplinkfrom the leaky faucet he should have repaired a month ago.
“Lucas?” My eyes swept the one-hundred-square-foot area, expecting he’d magically spring from a cupboard. “Are ya home?”
After no response, I padded out the kitchen before rounding our narrow hallway, fervent footsteps navigating me past a noticeably empty bathroom to the right.
As roommates, we’d established a hard set of bylaws, something to preserve a regardful, comfortable living arrangement.
First, keep the bathroom clean, its door wide open when not in use, and locked when occupied. Yes, renting a small house close to campus left us very few options like a two-bedroom bungalow equipped with only one bathroom. Don’t get me started on the number of times I’d walked in on Lucas and his girthy bananaconda emerging from the shower. Believe me, a girl could only take so much man candy without giving in to hormones and jumping his bones. Ergo, those continuous encounters with himau naturelprompted me to add that much-neededkeep-the-bathroom-door-locked-when-occupiedrule.
Second, respect one another’s personal space, which in essence meant we were to stay the fuck out of each other’s bedrooms.
I’d only once violated the latter when Lucas was away on a three-day Mexican Riviera cruise with Harper. There’d been a power outage, and I needed to access the electric panel housed inside his bedroom closet, another con when renting an older bungalow in Westwood.
As I neared his room, only steps away from my own to the left, my eyes caught Lucas’s door ajar, sun rays illuminating each step across the laminate floor creaking beneath my toes.
