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I’m taking Mel’s advice to soak up the quiet and partake in some self-care. This includes a bag of chips, a stack of my favorite books, my rom-com soundtrack playlist, my weighted blanket, and maybe a little quality time with my vibrator.
Because life likes to give me a kick in the ass when I get too smug, I’m in the midst of the latter when Trevor returns home, whistling. Shit.
“You’re home!” I squeak.
He pauses, assessing me. “You feeling okay?” I abandon my vibrator under the covers and run the back of my wrist over my forehead, which is definitely clammy. “Thriving. Never better!”
“Looks like you had a relaxing day.” I shrug. “It was average. Kinda lonely, though, aside from my book boyfriends.” And my vibrator.
“These will keep you company.” He pulls his right arm from behind his back to reveal two Halloween-size bags of Cheetos in his right hand. “Really? . . . For me?” I ask in awe.
“Oh my God. I love you,” I blurt out, already ripping one of the bags open. When the crests of his cheeks turn a dark shade of red, I walk back my overt enthusiasm.
“Um . . . you look tired.” His lips curve into a small smile. “Gee, thanks. You know how to make a guy blush.”
It’s pretty hot.” He raises a curious brow as he takes a couple of steps into my room to rearrange my bookshelf again. “Yeah?”
I flip a few chapters back to a particularly steamy scene involving the kitchen counter and hand it to him. “You may relate to this one.”
I suck in a sharp breath when his hand paws dangerously close to my vibrator hidden under my covers. Before he accidently touches it, I shift it over with my leg and it falls with a clatter down the crack between the wall and my bed.
“What was that?” Trevor asks. “Oh, nothing. Just a book. No big deal.”
I straighten my shoulders, ignoring the heat gathering in my neck, getting hotter and hotter the longer he smiles at me like that. From the edge of my bed where I was just
“Why not? It’s just sex.” When he says sex, my face flushes like I’m a prepubescent teen in health class,
“You’re obsessed with the idea of pursuing your exes because you’re scared to meet someone new.”
“Why do you only read books you’ve already read?” he challenges, gesturing to my bookshelf, filled with the worn and cracked spines of well-loved books.
When I boldly ask, “Have you ever considered therapy?” his jaw tics.
“Why are you typing your response in your Notes app?” he whispers in my ear, as though Brandon is in earshot.
Trevor’s eyes incinerate the block of text. “No. No. No.”
“You’ve lost custody of your phone. And the fact that you don’t know what’s wrong with that text scares me a little,” he says, his tone clipped. “He will run far, far away if you send this.”
“Wait for how long? You know I have no patience.” “Just an hour.” “That might as well be an eternity.”
“We can make cupcakes. I’ll show you how to make them from scratch so you don’t have to waste money buying that boxed crap.”
“You know how to bake from scratch?” “Let’s find out,” he says, and I swear there’s a twinkle in his eye.
She thinks the reason I’m still single is because I can’t cook or bake. Do you think that’s true?”
It’s an impossible feat for my weakling body. I know this. Surely he knows it too. But something about Trevor brings out my playful side. Putting a smile on his usually stone-serious face has become one of my favorite tasks.
Being the cause of those crinkle lines around his eyes and that deep, bellowing laugh gives me a high like no other.
Oh, and you have—uh—some flour—” He points in the vague direction of my face before reaching to brush it from my cheek. The gentleness of the swipe and the warmth of his thumb catch me off guard.
If you close your eyes right now, I bet a face comes to mind. It’s someone you wonder about every so often. Someone you have to stop yourself from drunk texting, perhaps? You often wonder what could have been?
My date advice is to ditch Brandon and date your roommate. This is what we deserve!!
TREVOR: Meet me in the bathroom NOW.
I don’t need your unsolicited two cents.” “My two cents was solicited, actually. Do you not remember begging me to come with you?
“I just don’t know if I see myself settling down and having kids, to be honest. I don’t want to waste your time,” he finally confesses.
“Really? I mean, I guess I just thought when we broke up the first time that you’d be ready, sometime in the future.”
You’re a great girl. Honestly, the best. I love spending time together. I just . . . I’m not looking to settle down in one place with a family and white picket fence.
And if you’re still remotely the same girl you were in college, it wouldn’t be fair of me to give you false hope and lead you on.”
And I think the best course of action here is to put the teddy bear away and go to bed.”
I’d prefer to overanalyze and pinpoint the moment it all went up in flames. For future reference. So I don’t keep messing things up.”
“If you’re about to try to convince me that cleaning is therapeutic, I might punch—”
“Be quiet and put your bathing suit on,” he orders before disappearing into his bedroom, closing the door behind him.
I blink, dumbfounded. “Is this some weird sexual ploy? Are you trying to hook up with me right now?”
army-green Crocs. It takes all my willpower to resist laughing and pointing like a child, and he can tell, based on his death glare. He’s silently daring me to comment, and of course, I do.
“I would advise you not to wear those in public. Especially in front of women, if you want to get laid,” I say, failing to muffle my snort-laughter.
Sure, I’m desperate to escape the frigid winter air in favor of the comfort of a warm bath, but the idea of sharing a pint-size hot tub with Trevor feels . . . intimate.
The very act of dropping my robe in front of him feels dangerous, a little illicit.
Some forgotten, seductive side of me—my alter ego, if you will—takes over entirely. I’m basically a Miss USA contestant during the bikini round, strutting my hot bod down the runway in five-inch heels.
I’m a nonsexual being to him. I could be entirely nude, nipples out and about, and he probably couldn’t be bothered to steal a glance.
When he closes his eyes again, I’m transfixed by the little bubbles of vapor on his unfairly thick lashes.
“This sucks balls,” I whine, unable to stop dwelling on the night.
Sure, he and I could have been happy together in a snapshot in time. But a full life with him would mean giving up everything I value and leaving my family and friends behind.
“I’ve heard hot tub sex sucks,” I say, mostly to rattle him.
