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when his gaze meets mine, my stomach betrays me with an uncal...
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it’s one hour too early for consciousness and definitely far too late for the rhythmic squeak of the mattress and the steady drum of the headboard slamming against the wall across the hall.
It’s been one month since I moved in, and this is the third woman Trevor has brought home (not including the redhead from move-in day).
I fold my pillow over my head in a sad attempt to muffle the cries of pleasure. But somehow, they just grow louder. There’s only so much Yes, Oh God, and Fuck I can withstand before morbid curiosity sets in.
Is Trevor Metcalfe really that good in bed? Or is this woman faking it for the sake of his fragile male ego?
Without notice, my traitorous imagination gifts me a visual to accompany the audio. Trevor’s tattooed, sinewy forearms cage me in as his lustful gaze sweeps over the contours of my body.
The weight of his solid, muscled body puts pressure exactly where I want it. He presses the softest bite into my neck, sending a trill of electricity to the forgotten corners of my body before he—
Where the hell did that come from? Am I that hard done by?
Despite being objectively hot, tattooed bad boys like Trevor are not normally my type.
I have no intention of crossing that line with him. After
I don’t judge others for partaking in casual sex. In fact, I envy their ability to take what they need while avoiding emotional damage.
“Want a Pop-Tart? It’s raspberry.” She eyes it like it’s a rare delicacy. “You are doing the lord’s work. I’m starving.”
And while he makes a regular habit of waltzing around shirtless, identifying the particulars of each design is like solving a jigsaw puzzle, slowly but surely, piece by piece.
“Is she gone?” he whispers before so much as setting a toe into the open-concept kitchen and living area. “No. I asked her to be our third roommate.”
“I’ll throw on a shirt if you clean up your books.”
I used them for a book-stack-challenge photo shoot two days ago and have yet to move them back to my room, despite his numerous requests. In the meantime, he’s piled them alphabetically.
“And if you’re going to keep having loud sex while I’m across the hall, the least you could do is let me decorate.”
“Can I ask you a question?” “No,” he grumbles,
“What’s it like to be the dumper?” I ask point-blank.
“In every relationship, there’s the dumper and the dumpee—the one who gets their heart broken. Take me, for example. I’m always the dumpee. Never the dumper,” I explain, omitting the detail that I’ve had the unfortunate pleasure of being dumped ten separate times, by ten separate men.
“You can only be a dumper if there’s a relationship to dump. I don’t do relationships.”
Crystal says I have an annoying tendency to box people into romance tropes and stereotypes.”
I’m probably the clumsy sidekick who cracks blunt jokes at all the wrong times. The disheveled one who provides emotional support to the more desirable and levelheaded heroine.” When I say it out loud to Trevor, my life does fit perfectly into a rom-com trope (hold the rom).
“I would like to get out of sidekick territory, though. Try something new. Actually, I just made a Tinder. Wanna judge my profile?”
Since my meet-cute-turned-mugging on move-in day, my DMs have been flooded with people serving up the cold, hard truth: online dating is my only option.
“Would you swipe right on me if I were a stranger?” I ask.
Trevor huffs a one-syllable laugh, which I interpret as a definite no
I’ll share my Netflix account; Cooks Kraft dinner without consulting directions on box; Looking for more than one type of happy ending; and Early-onset dad bods welcome.
He gave her his best flirty eyes, practically impregnating her on the spot, turning her cheeks to Red Delicious apples.
I’ve gotten into the habit of baking Betty Crocker cupcakes from the box every weekend out of pure boredom (and gluttony). Each batch has been devoured quickly, thanks to Trevor.
“I like pickles,” I announce. “Pickles?” A smile flirts at the corner of his lips for a fraction of a second as he slips his arm into his jacket. “Fine. I’ll buy you a jar.”
“You know, you could be one of those shirtless male models on a book cover. Tara, do you have any connections? Maybe you can get this man some modeling work.”
Ever since I managed to get her an early copy of a new Danielle Steel book, she’s under the false impression that I have some sort of clout in the publishing industry at large.
Ignoring me, she begins to indulge Trevor with some tales of my personal failings in the kitchen, including the time I microwaved tinfoil.
Grandma Flo tells me about her new Instagram account, LoopsWithFlo. It seems Crystal and I are no longer the only social media influencers in the family.
A lady has to keep her options open. You can’t just run into the arms of the first man who gives you a second look. That would be desperate.
GRANDMA FLO GIVES me a knowing, wise-owl look. Did my own grandmother just insinuate that I’m desperate on Live video, in front of my thousands of followers?
“This ex-boyfriend list led you to your second-chance reunion with Marty?”
Yikes. That sucks. You should get a cat.
“The Facebook is no way to meet someone.”
“So, what you’re saying is, you’re looking for love and you’re finally open to my help?”
You know the dating world is bleak when Grandma Flo can’t even muster up one measly option aside from a convicted felon.
“Romances like those don’t happen in real life anymore.”
“They don’t just happen, Tara. You have to make them happen.
Why don’t you do what I did?” “Try to date my exes?” I clarify. “Why not? What better pool to choose ...
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“I’ll tell you one thing. Men only get better with age. Trust me, second time’s a charm. Maybe you can even find one on time for that Valentine’s Day gala of yours.”
Love, as we’re told, is not something you actively seek out. The best love stories just magically fall into the laps of those who don’t expect or want them.
What if I want to take matters into my own hands? To prove romance-book-worthy love still exists?
It’s time to do what I do best. Internet stalk.
“It’s only six in the morning and you’re already plotting something sinister,” Trevor remarks in a hoarse, early-morning voice.
