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Nash pushes it away. “You don’t read palms. And you do this with every girlfriend I’ve ever had, making up some bullshit about her love line. Knock it off.”
“Girlfriend, huh?” Stella smiles and takes a bite of her sandwich.
Nash narrows his eyes at her, and she kicks him under the table.
I wish I had that kind of rapport with someone, so I don’t even mind that she’s using me to get his goat.
Chapter Four
Nash
IDON’T KNOW HOW Iforget, but I walk into my apartment tonight expecting it to be the same as it always is, only just as I let the door close behind me, Tru is coming out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel.
I no longer live alone.
My roommate turns me on.
It’s not hard to imagine her in the shower instead of out of it. Her body, sleek and wet, as soap runs down her breasts...
“Oh,” she breathes and stops abruptly. Maybe she forgot she didn’t live alone too.
I like the catch in her breath. It sounds close to a whimper, and suddenly, I’m filled with longing to hear her whimper and sigh in my arms instead of across the room. I’m pretty sure that’s not a thing that is going to happen. Even if she were on board, it would complicate things unnecessarily.
Or would it? Maybe she’d be less frustrating and troublesome if I could soften her with sex. She’s a little skittish, but it’s not like I didn’t see her watching me all night at the bar. Wanting me maybe.
She definitely gets tongue-tied when I flirt with her. Which is fascinating. Like a blushing virgin, though she was married for two years. My gaze lingers over her body a little too long, thinking about how easy it would be for that towel to flick open, and she turns a pretty pink all over.
“You’re blushing.”
“Just got out of the hot shower.” The air thickens between us. “I should get dressed, excuse me.”
She brushes past me, and I watch her all the way to the guest room before I let out a long breath. My mind goes back to teaching her how to pull a draft today. Her soft curves, the smell of her shampoo. My first impression wasn’t wrong this morning. She’s trouble.
The dog wanders past me and scratches at the door. I ignore it. It scratches again.
There’s a leash next to Tru’s keys, a little pink thing that looks like you could walk a guinea pig with it. I suppose that belongs to Fifi, who is more rodent than dog. Don’t ask me why I put the leash on it, carry it down the stairs, and wander the grass in front of my building while it does its business. I am disgusted with myself.
