Total pages in book: 12
Estimated words: 11137 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 56(@200wpm)___ 45(@250wpm)___ 37(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 11137 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 56(@200wpm)___ 45(@250wpm)___ 37(@300wpm)
“Yeah, but he says it’s more delish when you put it on the pan, except he forgot he needed to put a bit of water on it.”
“Right.”
God, this living situation is an absolute nightmare. I would never want to live with someone who burned his pizza and left the whole place smelling like it. I mean, I live in a small space where I can go from the door to the porch in three seconds flat, but boy, I can never take this kind of mess.
The couch is half-buried under a pile of throw pillows, hoodies, and socks. Three empty coffee mugs are on the table, right beside two controllers and a tangle of wires.
Jordan grabs the hoodies and socks and throws them into the bedroom. He pats the cleared space and tells me, “Make yourself comfortable.”
So I do. I sit there and watch him darting around the room like a man on a mission. He grabs a couple of shirts from the floor and flings it to the same bedroom before quickly slamming it shut.
“That’s your bedroom, right?”
Jordan gives me a lopsided grin that makes my heart skip a beat. “No.”
He stuffs papers and small electronics into the cabinet under the TV. A stack of books topples over, and he catches them just in time, muttering a curse under his breath.
“If you throw those books, I’m going to leave.”
He blinks slowly. “I wouldn’t dare. I love books.”
“You only ever bring one notebook to class.”
“So you notice?”
Damn it. I walked in on that one, didn’t I? “I see it when you come to annoy me.”
He doesn’t believe me, if that shit-eating grin is any indication, and he whistles as he brings the books to a single-seater couch. Jordan looks around and sees one stray sock before shoving it into a drawer that doesn’t seem like it’s for socks. “Done. Now I’ll make you lunch.”
Jordan rolls his Henley shirt to his elbows and begins washing the dishes. His arms and back muscles stretch under the thin fabric, and I’m well aware I need to look away before he catches me and teases me again.
Yet, I can’t.
From the broad shoulders and chest tapering to a small waist, he is the very definition of sexy. He’s tall enough that his head reaches the overhead drawers. If I have to guess, I’d say he’s at least 6’2.
When he begins slicing the tomatoes, his arm flexes, and my eyes zero in on the corded forearms. With how vain he is, I don’t doubt he goes to the gym. He doesn’t look buff, but he’s lean and muscled, like a runner’s body.
The realization hits me like a freight train.
Jordan looks like that, and I look like me—frumpy, boring, and unremarkable. The only time I’ll ever run is at PE … and in the event of a zombie apocalypse where my life and brain are at stake.
My insecurities rush to the surface, and I stop staring at him.
“I saw you looking at the dress,” he calls over his shoulder.
I bury my face in my hands, my skin warming from embarrassment. “Oh, yeah?”
“You like those dresses?”
“No.” The lie comes easy enough. I stand and walk to the square dining table, sliding into one of the seats.
“I’ll give you another chance to change your answer.”
He has his back on me, and the desire to pour my heart out is overwhelming. I don’t talk to anyone like this. Both my parents are in my hometown, and they call me maybe once a month to check whether I’m still alive. I have a couple of friends from high school, but we lost touch after college. At university, I have a few nodding acquaintances, but that’s the extent of my socializing.
“Yes,” I finally blurt out. I don’t know why I’m telling him. All I know is I need this out of my chest.
“So why don’t you ever wear them?”
He turns and leans his back against the counter, looking at me. The attention is too much, so I busy myself with the dried water spots on the table. “Because the last time I did, I glanced at someone for all of one second, and he thought it was an invitation to follow me home.”
I get the courage to look up, only to find him gripping the edge of the counter, his nostrils flaring. “That fucker. Did he hurt you?”
“No, because I went straight to the police station.”
His face softens. “Shit, I’m sorry, Jordyn.”
“Not your fault a lot of men act like animals.”
He lifts both palms. “No argument from me on that.”
He serves me chicken pesto wraps and offers me an unopened Snapple with a post-it note that says, “Toby’s. Do not touch this, fucker.”
“Toby will be so mad when he gets home,” I tell him.
Jordan lifts one shoulder. “I’ll buy him a new one. He always takes my groceries, anyway.”