I turn around just in time to see my new roommate stroll in with grocery bags dangling from his bulging arms, frowning at his phone. And I may be puffy-eyed and covered in snot and brimming with overwhelming emotions, but damn, Dr. Pretty Boy is rocking that messy look. He’s rocking it so good. Disheveled hair. Crooked tie. Rumpled button down. A tiny scuff on his shiny leather shoe. Hell—even his fading black eye is kind of hot. As I mentally eat him up, my mind blanks out. Wait—what is it I was crying about again?
