I’ll say I have clear boundaries, but then he looks at me with that vulnerability, and all of my objections just vanish.
After I turn off the water, I follow him into my room where I find him sliding into his sweater, having already put on his jeans.
The cashmere fabric outlines his muscles like a map I’m dying to get lost in, lick every inch, mark every ridge.
He uses the towel to dry his hair as he checks his phone, then types at supersonic speed.
And I observe his every move, his easing expression and the tilt at the corner of his lips, coupled with the dimples.
At least he looks more like himself now instead of the ghost from the bathroom.
I lean against the doorway, my arms crossed. “Who are you texting?”
“Jude,” he says without looking at me, a small smile tugging at his lips.
Jude again.
It’s always Jude buzzing around him like an annoying fucking wasp.
“Why are you texting Jude at two in the morning?”
“Why wouldn’t I? We live together.” He’s still focused on the phone, completely oblivious to the fire his words have ignited.
Sure, I know they cohabitate—which I’ve always disliked, for the record—but this is the first time I’ve loathed that fact with enough passion, I’m burning with it.
I stride toward him and snatch the phone from his hand, holding it out of reach.
Preston glares at me. “What do you think you’re doing? Give me back my phone.”
“Eat first.”
“What?”
“You haven’t had dinner, even though you were hungry.”
His lips part, but he clears his throat. “That’s fine, I’ll grab something to eat with Jude.”
“I already prepared food.” I try to speak calmly, although my tone lowers, betraying my complete annoyance at fuckingJude.“Eat before you go.”
I place his phone in my pocket and make my way to the kitchen, not waiting to see if he’ll follow.
He does, grumbling about not really being hungry.
Preston sits at the kitchen table, surveying the space as I pull out the mix I made earlier.
He looks kind of different here. At first, I think it’s because he doesn’t belong in a place like this, but it’s not.
There’s just something unguarded about him now.
His damp hair falls in haphazard strands on his forehead, some getting in his eyes. It must be annoying, but he’s not pushing them away.
He sits taller, craning his head to look at me. “Do you always cook?”
“Most of the time, yes. I cook dinner that Mom can reheat for lunch.”
“Your mom works night shifts all the time?”
“Mostly, yes.” I pour the mix onto the tortilla. “When I was younger, she chose night shifts because they pay well and she’d have time to take care of me during the day, but it’s become a habit now.”
