But I wasn’t going to say that. “I don’t think it’s the jock major,” I say earnestly.

  He shrugs casually. “It’s cool. It is. At least it was at my school. And I took rocks for jocks, dinosaurs for jocks, planets for jocks, and so on.”

  I feel terrible now. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like you had to give me your CV. It’s just really nice—your home. I’m not used to that from people my age. I’m twenty-six.” Since we’re both course-correcting from the other night, I add more. “I have a master’s in library and information science. My undergrad was English. And hey, I took physics for poets,” I say, and that makes him laugh as he leans against the doorframe leading into the living room. It’s a good look. One I cannot, should not, and will not linger on. “And English was the nerd major.”

  “Your words.”

  “I like words. And nerds. Which I am obviously one of,” I stage whisper.

  Wesley holds my gaze for a long beat, his eyes going darker, his lips curving the slightest bit, almost like he wants to say something, but then must think the better of it, since he says, all businesslike now, “Let me show you around.”

  He walks me through the living room. There’s a huge U-shaped couch, a flat-screen TV with a game console, and a record player on a table. We head into the kitchen, which is man-magazine-style worthy. I can’t resist. “Hey, it is black and chrome,” I tease, rapping my knuckles on the marble counter.

  “Yeah,” he says, scratching his jaw, like he’s taking it in. “But I don’t mind. I don’t use it a ton.” He strides to the Sub-Zero fridge, so gleaming it could double as a mirror. Patting it, he says, “I’ll make some room in the fridge for you. It’s full of prepared meals right now.” He sounds apologetic, but whether it’s for the meals or the lack of fridge space, I don’t know.

  “You cook in advance? Because I can definitely help with that,” I offer, hoping, truly hoping, he takes me up on it. “My aunt taught me to cook. And I can do healthy stuff too, like you had tonight.”

  He gives a quick shake of his head. “I have a meal service.”

  “Oh. Okay,” I say, a little defeated, but I’ll find some way to help. “That sounds fun too.”

  “My dad set it up. The meal service,” he says, lowering his voice, like it embarrasses him.

  He mentioned his dad that night. That he’d sent him to the art gallery. I’m about to say something along those lines to show I paid attention, but I think the better of it since I don’t want to bring up Frieda and maybe summon her somehow. She’d probably descend in a black cloud of vengeance and Chanel and tell Wesley I’ve been creeping on him, so I say, “Sounds cool.”

  “It’s whatever,” he says, and that whatever is doing a lot of work in telling me how he feels about his meal plan and perhaps his father. He guides me down the hall, gesturing to the staircase leading to the second floor. “I’m up there.”

  “Got it. The main bedroom suite,” I say, then playfully—or so I hope—add, “I’ll stay away from it.”

  His jaw ticks briefly, then he moves on and says, “And there’s a room at the end of the hall. It’s a gym.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “But I usually work out with friends instead.”

  “Cool.”

  He turns around and opens the door under the stairs, and I moan in pleasure. The cutout-style white door leads into a cozy room with a peaked roof. He gestures for me to go first and I head inside, whimpering in happiness as I look around. There’s a dove gray area rug with cute geometric shapes in different colors on it, and a full-size bed with a navy comforter. The best part, though, is the window seat. It’s covered in white and blue pillows, and my heart does a jig. “It’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen,” I say, bringing my hand to my chest.

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s so cute I could cry,” I say, then impulsively, I fling my arms around him. “It’s the first thing that’s gone right for me since I arrived,” I say into his neck, where I catch his scent. It’s the way he smelled the other night. Like the forest trees from my little town in Maine, and a mountain stream. I save these details in my Wesley file. He has a favorite cologne. Maybe even a lucky one that he likes so much he keeps it at home and at work.

  I draw a furtive inhale and once again, he’s my sexy stranger. The man who plus-oned me into an art opening simply to help me, who took me shopping so I wouldn’t feel foolish without pants, who bought me ice cream on our date, who rented a hotel room to fulfill my wish for a one-night stand.

  For a second, he seems unsure what to do with my hug, then his strong arms wrap around me. His muscles mold to my body. Images flash wildly through my mind.

  His arm locking me into place when he fucked me hard the other night.

  His hands on my ass when he went down on me.

  His lips coasting over every inch of me, including my belly button ring.

  When he breaks the embrace before I do, his eyes drift over my body, stopping at my stomach. Is he remembering my belly button piercing too?

  He clears his throat, but he looks…blank, almost stony, as he says, “There you go. Good night.”

  He’s gone. Leaving me alone in this room. It’s only when I sit down on the bed that my last words echo.

  It’s the first thing that’s gone right for me since I arrived.

  I groan. I’ve already insulted my new landlord. I’m the prick.

  14

  MY WINGWOMAN

  Wesley

  Saturday morning is now for working out instead of asking out. That’s fine. It’s totally fine. It’s a rest day since we played last night, but cardio’s cool on rest days. So, I hit the gym with Max and Asher, who give me hell from the StairMasters about me saying yes to Christian. If they only knew the whole of it. But I’m not telling them, now or ever.

  “Maybe, I dunno, you should offer a room to the coach’s daughter next?” Asher suggests, so fucking helpfully, as we’re leaving the gym on Fillmore Street.

  “Don’t forget the owner’s sister too,” Max puts in.

  “Mock me for being nice. That’s a real good look,” I say to the two of them as we head up the block, bustling with people pushing strollers and carrying coffee and more babies.

  “You’re so sweet, Wesley,” Asher taunts.

  “We must protect you at all costs,” Max adds with faux admiration.

  After I check that no one’s watching us, I hold my hands out wide, then flip them both double birds. “With friends like you…”

  “Friends? Who said we were friends?” Max tilts his head, adopting a confused look.

  “News to me,” Asher says with an innocent shrug.

  “And on that note, I’m outta here.” I give them a wave and they do the same back, then I take off at a rapid clip. Why walk when I can run? I pop in my earbuds, blasting The Last Shadow Puppets as I near my favorite coffee shop, Doctor Insomnia’s. Does Josie like coffee? Should I grab her one? I bet she likes lattes.

  I’m turning toward the chalkboard sign by the door, tendrils of purple steam rising above a chalk drawing of a coffee cup in the same color, when I decide against it. That’s a boyfriend move—not a roomie one.

  As I cruise up the street, I get a little lost in the music, but when I turn onto Jackson Street, a strange mix of both dread and excitement builds in my gut. It gets stronger as I near my home.

  I don’t like this feeling.

  Trouble is, I don’t know how to behave around Josie. Yesterday, when I offered to help Christian, I figured it’d be a “ships passing in the night” kind of deal with his sister. She’d do her thing; I’d do the captain a solid. My parents always taught me to “help out whenever you can.” True, when it comes to my dad with me, he over helps. But Mom had a good sense of balance and still does, so my offer wasn’t so much sucking up as second nature. I wish I could call her and ask her what to do next in this situation since she’s good with people, but she’s been traveling across Asia with her husband. He’s from Vietnam, so they’re doing a connect-with-the-roots type of tour, and I don’t need to bug her.

  Too bad that give-a-hand instinct now has me living with my one-night stand who I wanted to date but can’t. The whole situation gives new meaning to the word awkward.

  When I reach my home, I bound up the steps, bracing myself for—I don’t even know what I’m walking into.

  I barely know Josie.

  Plus, she wasn’t awake when I got up. No idea if she’s an ogre in the mornings or an angel. If she bounces around in pink workout pants doing pilates and planks, or shuffles bleary-eyed in jammies and fuzzy socks. Maybe she’ll be wandering around post-shower, a towel cinched around her tits, her wet hair sleek down her back.

  I pray it’s not the latter, even though I fucking wish it were the latter. Which sums up my life right now.

  But when I unlock the door and head inside, my home is eerily quiet. Well, her brother did say she kept to herself. He knows her better than I do.

  I toe off my sneakers at the door, drag a hand through my sweaty hair, and head for the kitchen to grab a glass of water. After I pour a cup and down it greedily, I turn around, spotting an album on the counter, resting against the blender my dad got me.

  It’s a record I’ve been wanting. Plus, there’s a folded-over sheet of paper with my name on the front. My heart gallops for a beat or two. Weird. Must just be the post-run adrenaline. Yeah, that has to be it.

  I flip open the sheet of light blue paper. And I stand corrected. It’s two sheets of paper. This girl loves writing notes with pen and paper. It’s long as fuck, but I’m determined, and glad, too, she took the time to put it on two pages.

  Dear Wesley,

  Something you should know about me is this—when I go to bed after nine-thirty, I turn into a monster. Think Medusa, Grendel, Pennywise the Clown. And then I say things like “this room is the first thing that’s gone right all week.”

  I’m sorry!

  That was so insensitive of me to say. Clearly this room is not the first thing that’s been good about this week.

  Anyway, I’m the worst! My only excuse is the late bedtime.

  The room is amazing, and so are you for helping me out yet again. I know nothing about the “Good Neighbors Band” but the guy who runs the record shop on Hayes Street (who incidentally looks like he runs a record shop, what with the shoulder-length hair, leather bracelets, wiry arms, and goatee) said if you like Ben Rogers you’ll probably like the Good Neighbors Band. I hope you don’t have it already!

  Anyway, here it is. A thank you gift. The cactus doesn’t count because it’s a prick.

  P.S. Since we’re roomies now and this stuff is probably useful, here are five things you should know about me.

  1. I love mornings!

  2. I am not as neat as you but I promise I will be neater because your neatness is inspiring.

  3. I love to explore, and I plan to learn everything possible about San Francisco over the next three months.

  4. See 3—I like to learn. It’s basically my entire personality.

  5. I also am in a committed relationship with baking. But should I keep tempting food out of the house? I don’t mind not baking for the next three months! I am very adaptable. Which is sort of a sixth thing about me.

  Josie

  After I take my time reading it, making sure I didn’t miss any words, I set it down on the counter, rubbing my sternum because it feels a little funny. A little fizzy.

  No one leaves me letters. Ever. In one week, I’ve received two from her. It’s kind of…adorably old-fashioned. I bet she likes Bridgerton too. Probably old standards like Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald as well. I pick up the album, my lips curving up in appreciation of the gift but mostly the gesture.

  Something bothers me about the letter though. The time frame. She’s only here for three months. There’s an expiration date to her presence. But that’s for the best. Really, it is.

  I head to the living room to put the record on when the front door swings open.

  “Good morning! I picked up fruit,” Josie says, holding a canvas bag, her chestnut hair back in a high ponytail, her jeans painted to the curves of her ass. “You said you had meal plans, and I know you don’t need someone to cook, and I definitely don’t want you to break your plan, but I figured fruit is always allowed, right?”

  “Pretty sure,” I say evenly since I don’t want to let on how much I like that she bought me fruit. Or how hard it is to look away from her pink, glossy lips.

  “Cool. So, maybe I can pay rent in fruit,” she says, so damn hopeful. She’s making such an effort to contribute that maybe I shouldn’t be so rigid.

  “You can pay rent in fruit,” I say, acquiescing.

  She pumps a fist. “Yes!”

  “But you’re not going to pay rent in cleaning, or cooking, or anything like that. You’re a roommate—not a maid. Also, good morning."

  “Thank you,” she says with genuine gratitude, and acceptance, too, that rent isn’t up for negotiation.

  She walks toward the living room. She’s wearing a sky blue top that slopes off one shoulder—a very tantalizing shoulder I want to kiss, lick, and bite. She stops in her tracks as her gaze lands on my feet. I’m just in socks now. She kicks off her sneakers next to the table with Prick the Cactus on it, then continues into my home, offering an apologetic glance my way. “Oh, I see you got the album.”

  “I did,” I say, sliding the LP out of the cover. “You really didn’t have to.”

  “I felt bad about last night,” she says, frowning. “What I said. And the way you left the room.”

  What does she mean? I rack my brain trying to figure it out. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

  She’s peering at me through those cute glasses, looking flummoxed momentarily. She takes a breath, then says, “Well, you left in such a rush. You just took off.”

  I flash back to last night in her room. She hugged me for a good long time. I caught the scent of her hair. Vanilla. Then the scent of her skin—cinnamon. My brain short-circuited, then sent me back in time when she pressed her face against my chest.

  Oh.

  Ohhh.

  Shit. She thinks I was mad at her when I hightailed it out of her room. That couldn’t be further from the truth. “That’s not why I left,” I say curtly.

  “Okay,” she says, but clearly she’s still confused.

  I could alleviate that confusion. Really, I could. But I’m not sure telling her I wanted to fuck her last night would fix this problem. Instead, I turn around and put the album on the turntable, taking my time setting the needle on the groove. As the first track fills the room, she heads into the kitchen to set the canvas bag on the counter.

  She takes apples, pears, figs, and grapes from the canvas bag with intense concentration that’s not needed for the task, but maybe it is needed to deal with a dickish roomie.

  But what am I supposed to say? You have no idea how hard it was NOT to fuck my hand to thoughts of you last night like I’ve done several nights prior? Also, your lips are incredible.

  Instead, I head into the kitchen to help her. I grab the grapes. “I can wash these.”

  “Thanks. I don’t know where the colander is anyway.”

  I need to do better. “Let me show you where everything is.”

  She smiles at me again. “You don’t mind?”

  What kind of monster would I be if I did mind? And who’s treated her so poorly as to mind about something like that? “No. Of course not.”

  I spend the next twenty minutes properly showing her around the kitchen, and washing the grapes. Then I give her a better tour of the living room, the guest bathroom, the gym, and the garage. I don’t show her my room, because what’s the point? She’s not going to come upstairs ever. I’m not that strong.

  When we’re back in the kitchen, I say, “So that’s that.”

  “Thanks again,” she says, cheery.

  But it’s like she’s trying extra hard to be nice. Maybe because I was a dick. Maybe because I’m still behaving like one. I lean against the counter, and try a new tactic. “Who’s Grendel?”

  Her blue eyes sparkle as she says, “The monster in Beowulf.”

  Yeah, maybe it’s for the best I never dropped off that scarf with my note. There’s no way we’d work out—a guy who hates reading and a girl who’s obsessed with it. No dating app is matching the librarian with the dude with dyslexia. “Pretty sure that was in my do-not-read pile in high school,” I say, with a deliberately easygoing shrug.

  “Confession: I think it’s in everyone’s do-not-read pile.”

  That’s a minor relief—that she didn’t like Beowulf. Did anyone? “But I like Pennywise,” I say, then quickly add, “From the movie. Well, I don’t like him. But mad respect for his villainy.”

  “Definitely.”

  “Also, I don’t think you’re a monster. Like you said in your letter.” I scratch my jaw, hunting for a suitable explanation for my behavior. “Listen, last night when I left your room, it wasn’t over what you said. I was just…adjusting.”

  She takes a few seconds, seeming to consider that. “I’m sorry. Am I…cramping your style, living here?”

  Ah, fuck. We are not at all in sync. On anything. “No, not like that, Josie.”

  With big, guileless eyes, she says, “I’ll look for another place. It shouldn’t be a problem. I’m sure I can find something in a few days. I’m very resourceful.”

  That is not happening. No way. Failure is not an option. “No.”

  “No?”

  I place more emphasis on the word: “No. You’re staying here. Your brother wanted you in a safe neighborhood. But guess what? I do too.”

  She blinks, like that comment surprises her. “But I don’t want to put you out or make things weird.” Then, like an idea just landed in that big brain of hers, she says, “We can make rules for that too. Like what happens if you want to bring a girl over.”

  She offers it like she’d be my matchmaker now. Maybe my wingwoman. Like she’s going to want to flop down on the couch next to me when I return from a date, rip open a bag of popcorn, and say, “So how did it go? Do you like her?”