The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(34)

Oz: Yeah, you’re fucked.

Me: Seriously, stop saying shit like that. I am not fucked.

Oz: Has she told him yet? That you’re a guy?

Me: How the hell should I know? She’s 21, she can do whatever the hell she wants.

Oz: You can’t see me, but I’m laughing my ASS off so hard right now. You’re so cute and na?ve, Elliot. So fucking cute.



Shit. What if he’s right? When I agreed to letting Anabelle live with me, call me a fool, but I honestly didn’t think her parents would give a shit about her having a male roommate.



Me: I’m not telling her she can’t live here, dude. She just moved her shit in.

Oz: Hope she doesn’t have a lot cause she’s gonna be moving it all back out, LOL.



He can be such an asshole sometimes.



Me: She’s just renting the spare room—it’s not even a bedroom, dude. That’s how desperate she is to get out of his house. And I really need the money for rent, so…

Oz: Okay man, whatever you say. Keep the lies coming.

Me: What the fuck, Ozzy?

Oz: Look, all I’m saying is, keep your dick away from Anabelle Donnelly and you should survive the rest of the semester. That’s just some advice from one friend to another.

Me: I’ve been on the receiving end of your advice before, but I’m not one of her dad’s wrestlers so I’m not going to worry about it.

Oz: Seriously Elliot?

Me: Dude, trust me. I won’t even know she’s here.





Won’t even know she’s here?

Who the hell was I trying to kid?

It’s like an Anabelle Donnelly bomb was dropped on my house overnight and detonated—her presence is everywhere. Her makeup is in my bathroom, on the counter, and in the cabinets. Her adorable baby blue narwhal slippers are by the front door, and the perky little coffee mug she plunked down next to mine winks up at me as I slough into the kitchen.

Taunting me.

Grabbing an orange from a basket, I peel it as Anabelle enters the tiny room, hair piled on top of her head. Makeup-free.

Beautiful.

She’s wearing a short gray robe made out of some satiny material, brushing past me when she reaches to pull open the fridge, bending to peer inside, ass in the air.

I turn to stare out the window so I’m not staring at her butt; this space is way too fucking small for both of us now that she’s no longer just an overnight guest.

“Morning,” she singsongs, clearly in high spirits. Leans against the counter, sizing me up. Twists open a bottle of water.

It’s the weekend and there are a few errands I have to run, but first I want to stare at her, this girl in my kitchen, both out of place and belonging here.

I’m staring because I simply cannot help myself. Anabelle Donnelly in the morning is a sight to behold. Chipper, cheerful, and looking none too worse for the wear.

I just assumed she would look the way she did that morning she was hung-over, but I’ll be the first to admit, she most certainly does not.

This could be a problem; she is way too good-looking and wearing far too few clothes.

“Morning,” I mutter.

Anabelle takes a sip from her water, smiling around the bottle. “You feel weird right now, don’t you.”

“Kind of,” I admit.

“Because you’re not used to having a girl sleeping in the next room, or…”

Or because I’m starting to seriously doubt my decision to let her live here based on the fact that I find her attractive, that I’m attracted to her, and if it’s not fucking cool getting a semi-boner while eating breakfast together for the first time, someone didn’t send my dick the memo.

“Are you always this awake in the morning?” I deflect, avoiding her question.

“Most of the time.” Her gaze rakes me up and down, dark brows rising. “But it’s not that early. Aren’t you a morning person?”

I grunt, peeling off an orange slice. “Not usually.”

Not when I lie in bed all damn night, awareness that everything inside the house has changed hovering like a goddamn storm cloud.

“What are you doing today?” she asks, making casual conversation.

“Running to the mall to pick up something I ordered online. If you have nothing going on, you wanna come?” Jesus, Elliot, what are you saying?

“I would love that! We can bond.” She winks. “Get to know each other better.”

Super.

Nonetheless, I just hammer the nail deeper into my coffin. “Maybe we can stop somewhere before we come home and get dinner?”

“When do you want to leave?”

“I don’t know, the mall doesn’t open for a few hours, but if you want we can stop to get coffee and shoot the shit.”

“Okay! I’ll get changed. Just knock on my door when you’re ready to go.”

Which ends up being exactly one hour later.

By nine, Anabelle is walking out of her bedroom in a fitted pair of jeans, wedges, and a tucked-in gray T-shirt that says Good Vibes Only in white block letters.

“Ready?” She pushes a pair of sunglasses to the top of her head, tucking a purse under her armpit, and when she breezes past me toward the door, I catch a whiff of her perfume.