I slip it on anyway, because I doubt my roomies will be awake to see it. Hunter said they have a six a.m. practice. But I’m wrong. One roomie is very much awake. Fitzy and I both release startled noises when our gazes collide in the kitchen. “Shit,” I curse. “You scared me.” “Sorry. And ditto.” He’s sitting at the table, long legs resting on the chair beside him, a sketchpad in his lap. Oh, and he’s shirtless. As in, not wearing a shirt. I can’t even.
