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The bun at the top of his head has wilted in his sleep.
There’s an enormous tattoo across his chest of a wolf with its head resting on his pec.
A deep V in his body runs from the shoulders down to a bulge that I try not to stare at for fear of blindness.
One can be sun-blinded. Can one be dick-blinded?
I take it all in and try to keep my face neutral. I’m no stranger to half-naked men. There were a few who would come into my yoga studio and practice shirtless, especially when I taught Bikram yoga. But this feels a little different. This is most definitely not a professional setting.
I don’t even know if Chris has a partner, and why the hell would I be wondering that, anyway?
Chris catches sight of me and startles.
“Hello,” he says. With his accent, the e is low and thick. “Are you all right?”
I am honestly not sure what my face is broadcasting. I feel a mix of emotions, and trying to parcel them out sounds like too much work, so I just swallow it all and clear my throat. “Yes, hi. Did you forget I was here?”
“No,” he says. Then his eyes drift toward the ceiling. “Kind of.” Before I can say anything, Chris turns around and wanders away.
In a few minutes, he returns, more awake and more clothed, with a T-shirt and lounge pants on. He pads barefoot into the kitchen, and there are rummaging noises and then the smell of coffee percolating.
Without the distraction of too much fair skin, Chris reminds me of a cat someone shooed out of a sunny patch by the window; just pure indignation at having to be awake.
A door opens and closes, and Chris passes by the big windows, settling into one of the outdoor couches.
I get up, abandoning my book, and make myself another cup of tea and carry it outside, but when I catch sight of Chris out the window, I stop dead in my tracks.
He’s smoking a cigarette.
I wrinkle my nose.
Some part of me is deeply relieved that he’s a smoker. Going from scorching-hot, tattooed nudity to someone who smokes is like whiplash for my libido, but that’s probably a good thing.
A roommate who smokes, even outside, is almost a deal breaker in the roommate department.
A hot guy who smokes is most definitely a deal breaker in the romance department.
But I’m not in the romance department. I’m in the roommate department. It puts Chris firmly back into the box of a guy I barely know and have no interest in seeing naked.
4
Chris
The screen doorsqueaks as Sara opens it and steps outside. I truly had forgotten about her when I woke up; sleep always sloughs off slowly, and every morning I use coffee and a cigarette to hasten it.
She’s holding a steaming cup and folds herself into a cushioned chair opposite mine. She eyes my cigarette, and a moue of distaste forms on her face.
I take a deep puff, and she watches, which is hot. I’ve always found disapproval intriguing. It’s what fed my fucked-up drive to be a musician, even when the odds are stacked against me.
Sara lightly shakes herself. “I’m going to go grocery shopping. Is there anything you need? Should I call up a ride-share, or do you want to come with me?”
I exhale. “You can take my car. Keys are in the kitchen somewhere.”
The disapproval deepens. “What about insurance? And I don’t have an international driver’s license.”
I wave it away. “It’ll be fine.”
Sara huffs at me. “It’ll be fine,” she echoes under her breath, but when she says it, it sounds irresponsible and dumb. She pulls out her phone and types away for a few minutes.
