Page 8 of Make Me Mean It

CHAPTER THREE

THEO

Iround the corner towards my room and stop, staring at the door sitting slightly ajar. It’s barely a crack, and normally I wouldn’t give enough of a shit to notice, but I know I fucking closed it.

Mostly because Marcus has a habit of helping himself to my shit, and I’ve started locking the bastard out on principle.

I glance back down the hallway, half expecting to catch one of the guys disappearing around the corner, but it’s empty. The rest of the assholes sound like they’re downstairs, trying to bring the fucking house down. Music pounds, muffled laughter bleeding up through the floorboards, followed by a shout loud enough that I can almost make out the words.

I push the door open wider, already preparing myself to find one of the guys digging through my shit, but whatever insult I’m about to throw at them disappears the second I see who’s actually in here.

Connor is sprawled across the middle of my bed.

Well, fuck.

One ankle is hooked lazily over the other, a notebook propped against his raised knee and a pencil trapped between his teeth while he glares down at the page like it’s personally offended him. His hair’s fallen over his forehead, messier than it was earlier, and apparently Princess has made himself right at fucking home.

I lean against the doorframe instead of saying anything, watching him worry the pencil between his teeth.

It might be the first time I’ve seen him without a stick shoved firmly up his ass. He’s usually so put together it’s painful, looking like relaxing might actually kill him.

This version of him is new.

He looks comfortable. Relaxed, even, which is weird enough that I almost don’t recognise him.

He looks out of place in here. Too neat against my tangled sheets and the general shitshow I call a bedroom. This is the same guy who spent half an afternoon looking personally offended every time I put a box somewhere he hadn’t decided it belonged, and now he’s somehow managed to make himself comfortable in the middle of my mess. There’s a pile of clothes taking over the chair that’s been there long enough I’ve stopped pretending I know what’s clean, and he hasn’t so much as looked at it.

I should probably be more bothered by the fact he’s taken over the middle of my bed without asking. I don’t particularly like people in my room, and I like them touching my shit even less.

Connor, apparently, doesn’t count.

He shifts against my sheets, still completely oblivious to me, and I finally lose the fight with my smile.

“Lost, princess?”

Connor’s head jerks up so violently I almost wince for his neck, his eyes snapping to mine. His lips part around the pencil before his teeth clamp down on it again, brows pulling together as he looks me over with all the warmth of a slammed door.

“I’m waiting for Marcus.” Connor pulls the pencil from his mouth, his legs dropping from the bed, straightening, every trace of that loose sprawl disappearing with them.

I push away from the doorframe, in no hurry to put him out of his misery just yet. “And you didn’t want to wait for him in his room?”

Connor’s brows furrow, and I can practically see him working through what I’ve just said. His mouth opens, probably to tell me he is in Marcus’s room, then closes again. His eyes leave mine and dart around the room before dropping to the bed beneath him.

His head snaps back towards me, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek.

Fuck, I wish I had a camera.

“I didn’t know this was your room.” His voice has gone clipped, but the pink creeping over his cheeks ruins the effect.

The tank sticking to my stomach is starting to piss me off, so I head for the dresser, tugging the damp fabric away from my skin only for it to slap straight back into place. Apparently, standing around watching Connor make himself comfortable in my bed distracted me from how badly I need a shower.

“Sure you didn’t.”

The silence behind me stretches long enough that I can practically feel him glaring holes into my back, which should probably be my cue to leave it alone. Instead, I drag open the top drawer, rummaging through the mess for something clean.

“What, were you hoping to accidentally end up in my bed?”

“Jesus Christ,” Connor hisses under his breath. “Do you ever stop talking?”