Page 39

What I said was, “No worries.” What I thought was no apology necessary, since there was a stronger-than-good chance I was going to beat off to the memory of that headlock later.

“Gimme twenty minutes?” he asked.

“Yeah, of course.”

Mikey pressed the button for the elevator, turning to face me. His smile was gone, replaced by a furrowed brow. “You’re sure about us being roommates?”

“Absolutely,” I said, silently hoping I wouldn’t live to regret this.

The elevator dinged twenty-four minutes later, and Mikey stepped out wearing black pants that hugged his thick thighs and a rust-colored dress shirt, the top two buttons undone to reveal the column of his neck. His hair—normally a riot of untamed curls—was slicked back, and he’d trimmed the scruff on his jaw so that it was barely a shadow against his skin.

He looked so fucking good.

He also looked supremely uncomfortable as he approached me, his hand gripping the back of his neck.

“I, uh … I didn’t know if this was an ‘impress the landlord’ kind of thing or what.” He glanced down at his clothes, then back up, his tan cheeks burnished.

My eyes tracked over him again. It took me a second to find my voice, and when I did, I probably should have just stayed quiet. “It’s fine. You’re fine. I mean … you look great. Perfect. Fantastic. Shit.”

Fucking hell.

“Cool,” he said with a light chuckle, releasing his neck. “For what it’s worth, I took my cue from … all that.” He gestured vaguely in my direction, a slow wave of his hand that was meant to indicate my own outfit.

As athletes in the middle of camp, we pretty much lived in athletic gear. But since I’d come from the closing on my condo—which was dress to impress—I had on dark gray wool trousers and a black cashmere sweater.

“Shut up,” I groused, turning toward the door. “Let’s go.”

As we approached my Range Rover, he whistled. “Of course you drive that.”

“It was a graduation gift,” I said, reaching for the door handle. The locks disengaged, the hazards flashing twice.

Mikey snorted, and it belatedly occurred to me that probably made it worse. What kind of privileged asshole got a fully loaded Rover as a graduation gift?

Everyone you know, my mind supplied unhelpfully.

“At least tell me it wasn’t your high school graduation,” he implored.

“Of course not.”

My high school graduation gift had been a week-long fishing trip to Cabo with my dad and a bunch of his buddies on one of their boats.

“Meanwhile, I got a fifty-dollar Old Navy gift card.”

“I thought you didn’t go to college,” I said, trying to make the timeline work in my head as I climbed into the driver’s seat.

“High school, Cally. I’m talking about high school.” He pulled himself up into the passenger seat and snapped his seatbelt into place, shaking his head.

“Oh.” I started the ignition, feeling my face heat with embarrassment.

He laughed again. “Sorry. I’m just fucking with you. It’s not like I didn’t already know you’re a rich, pretty boy.”

My heart went kerthump.

“You think I’m pretty?” I asked as we rolled to a stop at the sign.

He spun in his seat as best he could given the seat belt locked across his chest, staring at me for two long blinks. “I seriously can’t tell if you’re fucking with me now.”

“I’m not.”