Chapter 5
Blakely
I’m pacing my carpeted bedroom floor, listening to the sound of water hitting the tiles in the bathroom. Waiting…Waiting…Waiting...
I hear the groan of the faucet shutting off. Then the groan of the hinges as the bathroom door opens and closes. Then the groan of the wooden floors as Nicholas pads down the hall to his bedroom whistling a Frank Sinatra tune under his breath.
Yes, he's into Frank Sinatra.
Be still my weeping vulva.
I open my bedroom door a crack and peek out into the hallway. No sign of him. The coast is clear.
Grabbing my yoga studio uniform and my toiletries bag, I tiptoe across the hall, trying to sidestep all the creaky spots in the floor.
Yes, I'm trying to avoid him.
Because every time he tries to make conversation with me, I say something stupid or I feel my face heating up. I couldn't get any more awkward if I tried. So, I'm going to keep contact with him to a minimum until his time in Reyfield is up and he goes back to whatever sexy-geek utopia he comes from.
But just as I’m about to shove the door closed behind me, I see it...
The toilet seat is up.
I stand there at the entrance to the steamy bathroom where my new roommate just finished his shower and stare wordlessly at the lifted toilet seat as dread twists in my stomach.
I have a male roommate and he leaves the toilet seat up. And he doesn't close the shower curtain. He also leaves his toothpaste on the edge of the sink with the cap flipped open.
This was a bad idea. This isn't going to work.
The man is maddening. He's equal parts endearing and infuriating. Half the time, I want to strangle him for being so damn charming. The other half, I want his mouth and his hands on me. So, I just hide out in my room because he's fucking overwhelming.
"Hey Blakely."
A deep, raspy voice rings out behind me. Startled, I spin around to find him standing there, shirtless, sculpted abs still dewy from the shower with my Martha Stewart bath sheet wrapped around his tappered-in waist.
His dark eyes go to the toilet and he throws me an apologetic half-smile. "Sorry about that," he says as he reaches around me in the narrow doorway, stepping one foot into the tiny bathroom and flipping the toilet seat down.
Every hair on my body stands stiff in its follicle as his bare chest brushes against my arm. I feel a sizzle in my nipples and those traitorous suckers turn to little stones.
"There. All better," he announces with a smile. He grabs my moisturizer from the decorative caddy sitting atop the toilet tank and gives me a wink before he turns back toward his bedroom, whistling under his breath.
I think I've been standing frozen in the same spot for the past five minutes. Only now, my nipples are buzzing and I'm pretty sure there's a wet spot in my panties.
He wasn't supposed to be this good-looking.
When I accepted Wesley's offer to hook me up with the perfect roommate, he'd promised me a nerdy Silicon Valley programmer who spent his days writing code and watching Japanese anime cartoons. He never mentioned that said geeky programmer would be performing said boring activities while shirtless and dripping his libido-igniting pheromones all over my new upholstered Crate and Barrel ottoman. A girl like me can't handle all that charm and charisma in such a small space. Every time he smiles, it feels like I’m on the verge of a medical emergency and these heart palpitations are really starting to worry me.
He can't stay here. His effortlessly seductive energy is cutting minutes off of my life expectancy.
This living arrangement definitely isn't going to work.