Dazed (Connections, #2.5)(9)

He smiles at me as he takes his next bite.

I feel an ache that centers itself right between my legs and I need to focus on something else. “So, tell me, what was so bad about where you lived?”

He leans back in his chair. “Like I said, after college I didn’t have a lot of money. So I lived in a huge old Brooklyn warehouse with five other guys for $2,400 a month. The place was cheap with six of us splitting the rent, but it always felt like six families lived there and quickly had to evacuate—clothes were all over the floor, pizza boxes and Chinese takeout containers littered the counters, and empty beer cans were arranged in a triangle on the kitchen table.”

“Why is that?” I ask, trying not to focus on his body.

“It was our pool table,” he shrugs.

I laugh. “That’s innovative. Where did you move after that?”

“Once I took the modeling contract, I moved into the Windham Modeling Agency’s apartment. It was much nicer—a high-rise just outside of Chinatown. It was much cleaner and had maid service, but dudes were floating in and out constantly. It was six bedrooms and a central room with a large kitchen and living room. We had to bunk together, usually only two of us, sometimes three, to a room. A model signed by the agency years before was the super—but he was really our house manager. He was a little over the top with keeping the apartment in order. That place was the complete opposite of my apartment in Brooklyn. But it worked at the time.”

I raise a brow. “That’s an awful lot of roommates.” The thought of that many people living together horrifies me.

He nods. “It was. Do you have a roommate?”

I laugh. “No, I’m not exactly the easiest person to live with.”

“No?”

I laugh again. “Just ask Dahlia about me.”

An almost sneaky smile forms on his lips. “I think I might just have to do that.”

Wrapping my yoga jacket around me, I reluctantly stand. “Well, I really need to get going. It’s late and I still have to drive back.”

Jagger looks at the watch on his right wrist. It has a battered large black rubber band with all kinds of buttons and displays. He raises a brow. “It’s almost midnight. You’re not going to turn into a pumpkin are you?”

I smirk and having caught a rhythm with his humor, I give it right back. “Wrong fairy tale. That’s Cinderella, not Alice in Wonderland.”

“Shit, you’re right.” He brings his palm to his forehead. “What am I thinking? What about you? Where do you live? Not the rabbit’s hole and not a carriage, I assume.”

I giggle. Yes, Aerie Daniels, the girl who doesn’t have a funny bone in her body, giggles. What’s wrong with me? “No, I don’t live in a hole or a carriage, but I live in Laguna Beach and it’s like wonderland.”

“So do you recommend the beach over LA? I need to start looking for a place.”

“Well not so much the beach, just the town.”

“You don’t like the beach?”

“No, not really.”

“Hmmm . . .” He’s quiet and it seems as if he’s trying to process what I just said.

“The town is just so full of life. It’s quaint with so many art galleries and boutiques. The bars and restaurants are nice too. The hills have great views and the homes on the bluffs over the ocean on the south side are incredible. I live near town and it’s a short drive to work. Sometimes the traffic is bad, but nothing like if I had to drive to LA. And Laguna is just a really artsy and very liberal place to live.”

“So it’s your l’endroit que vous aimez?”

I pause for a moment, lost in his eyes. “Yes, I never thought of it that way, but I guess it is.”

He sips a beer, having moved on from coffee, and I watch the way the cool liquid flows down his throat. I’ve never noticed how sexy a man can look lifting a Heineken to his lips. “I’ll have to check Laguna out,” he says lowering his bottle.

“Yes, you should. I just can’t stand it here. It’s too crazy.”

“That makes sense.”

“What does?”

“That you wouldn’t like hectic city living.”

I push my chair in. “I’ll have you know, I grew up in Chicago.”

He scratches his head. “Now, that surprises me.”

“You know what surprises me?”

He rises from his chair and steps toward me, twirling a piece of hair that has fallen lose from my braid around his finger before tucking it behind my ear. His mouth quirks up into an insanely smoldering grin. “No. Please tell me though.”

My stomach flutters and I don’t know why. I try to ignore it, but it won’t stop. “That you drive Orange Julius.”

He laughs, tilting his head back and forth—only making him all the sexier. And in this moment, right here, watching this beautiful man, I can tell that he’s a free spirit, very much like my best friend. I can see why River, Dahlia, and Jagger, get along so well. They are all so much alike. I’m definitely the odd man out.

“Orange Julius?” he questions.

“That was what they named the car like yours in The Fast and the Furious once it got a makeover.”

“How do you know that?” he asks still laughing.