Page 4 of How I Ruined Everything by Kissing My Roommate

"I am merely observing the subject for artistic analysis," I muttered, grabbing a glass of something suspicious. "Her posture is criminally relaxed. It's offensive."

Before I could continue my artistic analysis, Sophie’s head snapped up. Her eyes, startlingly blue in the fading light, locked onto mine across the busy space.

The smile that spread across her face—the genuine, blinding one, not the polite customer service one—was immediate, shocking, and disarming. It transformed her entire expression, lighting up her eyes until the entire world felt a little warmer.

She didn’t hesitate. She threw a quick apology over her shoulder and began weaving through the crowd, heading directly toward me.

"Brace yourself," Maya murmured, taking a long sip of her drink. "The sun is landing."

Sophie skidded to a stop right in front of me, a rush of clean air and warm confidence.

"Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in," Sophie teased, her voice pitched low enough to be intimate over the music. She ignored Maya completely, her attention laser-focused on me.

I gripped my glass tighter, fighting the ridiculous rush of adrenaline. "I thought you were busy claiming territory, Mercer."

"I am. That's why I'm here. I was told you weren't a party person, Hart," she countered, her eyes dancing over my suddenly chosen, sharp outfit. She didn’t mention the clothes, but the appreciation in her gaze felt like a direct compliment. "Did you escape your easel, or did you realize the paint brushes weren't going to tell you any good jokes?"

"Neither," I said, trying to regain my aloof posture. "Maya kidnapped me and promised cheap alcohol. The former was mandatory; the latter was the sole compensation. I’m here under duress".

Maya chimed in sweetly, "I promised fun, Iris. Which is the thing you are pathologically allergic to."

Sophie chuckled, a low, easy sound. "It's the tortured artist thing, Maya. Gotta cultivate the angst." She turned back to me. "So, is that the portfolio look? Very 'I am too cool for your mainstream happiness.'"

"I'm dressed for utility," I snapped back. "If you must know, I'm a fine arts major. You should try it sometime. It’s far more mentally stimulating than kicking a ball around a lawn."

Sophie didn't rise to the bait. Instead, she leaned closer, the proximity sending an unwanted shiver down my spine. "See, now that's where you're wrong. Soccer is pure geometry, physics, and strategy under pressure. I'm a captain, Hart. My job is to see the entire field, not just my own small corner. Just like your art, I bet. You see the world differently, right?"

The comment hit differently. It wasn't teasing; it was genuine intellectual respect. The look in her eyes was momentarily intense, breaking through my defenses, and for one brief, electric moment, we were just two people staring at each other. She wasn't an annoying jock; she was a focused, deep-thinking woman who was actually seeing me.

"I guess you could say that," I admitted quietly, dropping my guard just a fraction.

Sophie smiled, triumphant but gentle. "Guess I was right about the art thing. What kind of art do you make? Messy, angry landscapes? Abstract emotional self-portraits?" She pointed a finger toward my face. "Something tells me you pour all that repressed energy onto the canvas."

My smile was small, reluctant, but real. "I never show anyone my paintings. And you're already doing too much speculating for one evening, Mercer."

"A mystery, then," Sophie mused, her gaze lingering a beat too long. "I like a challenge, Iris. I always get the ball in the net, eventually."

I felt a dizzying combination of fear and exhilaration. I was actually enjoying this. I was being seen and I wasn’t running. This was the moment of electric connection the plan had called for, and it was terrifyingly sweet.

"I’m sure you do," I managed, fighting a genuine smile. "But this artist’s canvas is strictly off-limits."

The moment shattered before either of us could respond.

“Babe! There you are!”

A new voice, smooth, deep, and utterly masculine, cut through the music. A handsome guy with a friendly, easy demeanor stepped up to Sophie, effortlessly sliding his arm around her waist, claiming her as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

He pressed a lingering kiss to Sophie’s cheek, his touch intimate and familiar.

"I've been looking all over for you, gorgeous. Come meet the rest of the guys. Who are your friends?"

My blood went instantly cold. A guy. Of course.

The genuine smile I had been fighting to keep on my face vanished, replaced by a mask of cold hostility. It wasn't just disappointment; it was the sickening drop of recognition. This was Riley all over again: the sudden, public appearance of a casual fling, proving I was wrong to trust my gay-dar, wrong to lower my guard.

"This is Iris, my new roommate," Sophie said, her hand resting warmly on the guy’s arm. She seemed entirely oblivious to the sudden, frozen atmosphere. "And this is her friend, Maya."

"Mark," the guy said, extending a hand that I pointedly ignored as I picked up my glass. "Great to finally meet the infamous artist. Soph hasn't stopped talking about you since the party began. She says you’re the grumpiest person she’s ever met."