Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70376 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70376 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 352(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
“Hey.”
“Hey.” He pauses, sucking in a deep breath. The muscles in his arms tremble with strain. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”
“No.” I don’t actually know what woke me, so it’s not exactly a lie. “Can’t you sleep?”
“Nightmare.” His voice is clipped. All ease, he climbs to his feet and heads into the kitchen for a glass of water. His hair is tied back from his face, his cheekbones stark. There’s something raw and real about him. Like with the flirtatious behavior and his usual joie de vivre stripped away, the bare bones of the man are exposed. “Want a drink?”
“I’m fine, thanks. Was it about the accident?”
A nod.
“So you wear yourself out physically to get back to sleep?”
One shoulder lifts a little. It’s a half shrug. As much as he can manage, apparently. And it’s the arm that wasn’t injured in the accident, so lord only knows how bad the other is hurting. “The idea is to keep pushing until exhaustion and lactic acid burn crowd out everything else. Sometimes it works.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” I don’t think he does, given his body language, but it seems only polite to ask.
A brief shake of the head as expected.
“Okay.” And I just stand there in the living room doorway not sure what to do. The overexertion can’t be good for his arm, but I’m neither his mother nor his keeper. I know what it’s like to have people getting in my face about issues relating to the accident, so I’m not about to do the same to him. Though it’s tempting.
Worrying about him also means that my mind is now wide the fuck awake and going at about a billion miles an hour. Poor Leif. Poor hot, half-naked Leif. It basically just goes on and on like that. Sex thoughts inundating my mind. All of the inappropriate in all of the land is mine.
Since I won’t be sleeping anytime soon, I figure I might as well do something constructive with the time. Also, there’s the happiness I’m feeling, yet again, that I’m in a space that’s fifty percent my own. Within reason, I can do whatever the heck I like without Mom butting in and asking what I’m doing, and getting anxious about me using her things and making a mess in her perfect house. Getting a glass of water was enough to make her run for the kitchen to check on things. I come by my neurosis honestly.
“I think I might bake something,” I say.
“You’re going to bake?” He tilts his head. “Now?”
“Yeah.”
“Huh. What are you thinking of making?” He leans against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his still very much bare chest. Leif has a little more chest hair than Ryan. I don’t think I ever had strong opinions on chest hair before, but let’s take a moment here and get introspective. There’s not a ’70s porn star excessive amount of chest hair going on, just enough to make things interesting. Enough to make me want to stroke my fingers over his pecs and flat nipples. To curl my fingers around his firm biceps and lean in for a sniff.
Is it wrong to want to smell your roommate? It is. I know it is.
I’m objectifying him again, dammit. I am the actual worst. Leif is just a friend. That’s all he wants and I’m going to respect his decision, if it’s the last thing I do. This may involve me donning a chastity belt, or something, but such is life. My hormones will have to calm the fuck down. Because having him for a friend is pretty damn awesome all on its own. Think I might have to pluck my eyes out to stop with the staring, though. Nothing less will do. Me and my surprisingly dirty one-track mind are an issue.
“Um . . .”
He waits.
Right, baking. We were talking about baking.
“Well, what have we got?” I head over to check out the pantry and fridge. Given Leif keeps scotch, beer, ketchup, and not much else, I’d brought groceries with me. Just the basics. Enough to get started. “No bananas, so we can’t make banana bread. No blueberries, so we can’t make pie or muffins. I know, how about brownies?”
“Brownies would be amazing.”
“Okay. Done.”
“It’s weird having someone in this space,” he says.
“Weird bad or weird good?”
“The latter.”
I smile.
First, we both wash our hands. Next, out come the butter and eggs from the fridge. Then the flour, sugar, baking powder, and cocoa from the pantry. Excellent. We’ve got everything we need for a chocolate fix in the wee hours of the morning while sleep has left us high and dry. Though maybe not dry in my case, because he still hasn’t put a shirt on and he is right there and his sweat is apparently a beckoning call to my overactive hormones and lady parts.