The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(47)

“Uh, thanks.” I pause. “Thanks for washing them this weekend.”

“Thanks for hauling the garbage cans down to the curb yesterday when it was my turn.”

“No problem.” It was her turn—I know this because she made a chart when she moved in so we could share responsibilities. There are only like, five chores, but if a chart makes her feel like she’s contributing, I’d be an idiot to complain.

I rewind, go a little too far, and hit play. We watch again in silence until I wonder out loud, “Are women really attracted to guys who look like that?”

“Pfft, I’m not.”

“Every guy she goes out with looks like a creep. I don’t get it.”

“It’s fake, Elliot.”

“I know that, Anabelle. I’m merely making an observation.” I roll my eyes. “Out of all her boyfriends, who would you date?”

“Gross. You’re going to make me choose from those guys? I can’t. I’d rather throw up in my mouth.”

“Just pick one.”

“Fine. I’d pick Gus—not because I want to, but because you’re forcing my hand.” She rolls to her back, staring up at the ceiling. “We’re going to be up all night if we keep talking.”

I click rewind. “Should we just turn it off?”

“Yeah, maybe. I’m tired. My heart’s not in it.”

We laugh, and she sits up to take a drink of water. Falls back onto my pillows, hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun, lobbing from side to side when she moves.

“I guess I’ll go back to my room.”

I hesitate, not wanting her to go, already missing her but not knowing if it’s appropriate for me to ask her to spend the night.

Casually, “Nah, you’re already comfortable. If you promise to keep your hands to yourself, you can stay put.”

“Yes, please. I’m too lazy to walk all the way across the hall.”

“The whole ten feet?”

“It’s so far.” She chuckles in the dark when I hit the power button and my television goes off, making the room pitch black.

“Wow. This is dark.” Her voice cuts through the night.

“Isn’t your room dark?”

“Not this dark. I have a streetlight outside my window that keeps me up sometimes. One of these days I’ll order some curtains, or maybe I’ll buy myself a sleep mask.”

“I can help you hang curtains.”

Her hand finds me in the dark, patting its way up my forearm. Bicep. Giving me a squeeze.

“Good night Elliot.”

I yawn, lying flat, rolling to my side, facing the door. “Night roomie.”

Another soft chuckle and she yawns, too. “I love it when you call me that.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. I don’t know why—it’s not much fun as far as nicknames go, but…I’m glad I’m here.”

The room is silent as I think of what to say next.

“Same.”





Anabelle



I don’t know what time it was when we both fell asleep, but at some point in the middle of the night, we gravitated together, something I’ve never done before when in bed with another human. I’m wrapped up like a pretzel.

I don’t know when I rolled up beside him, or when my cheek found the space above his armpit, resting there…or when I threw my leg over his thigh, tucking it between his legs.

Palm flattened out over his ribcage.

His arm around me, pulling me in.

When did we curl into each other?

Does it even matter?

His body is so warm, and I’m in no rush to unfurl myself, content to listen to the rhythmic sound of his heart. It’s beating relatively slowly, so without having to look, I know he’s still sleeping.

Bu-bump, bu-bump, bu-bump.

Steady.

Constant.

Just like Elliot.

Over the course of a few short weeks, he’s become more than just my roommate; he’s become my friend. Big. Strong.

Solid.

Every muscle on him is firm and toned. Tan from playing soccer with no shirt on, his upper body is carved to perfection, not too hard, not too soft.

Perfect.

Eyes still closed against the morning sun, the tips of my fingers do the exploring for me. Softly drift from their spot on his sternum, trailing across his ribcage, pressing into his hot flesh in slow, lazy circles.

Bu-bump-bu-bump-bu-bump.

His heartbeat quickens.

My hand runs over his skin, up along his collarbone. The space between his neck and shoulder, languid and carnal, back to his chest.

He smells good.

I always notice, but more so when we’re piled on his bed watching television, every time he shifts on the bed. Fresh like a shower, like soap—no heavy cologne or body spray. Just water and soap and him.

I crack an eyelid when my fingers skim along the underside of his pecs, chancing a glance at his face.

He’s awake. Watchful. Massive palm beginning a leisurely stroke up and down my back, his touch leaving a hot trail in its wake.

As my thumb caresses his nipple, my eyes travel down the length of his long, lean torso, settling on the front of his athletic pants, on the stiffening dick there.

Bu-bump-bu-bump-bu-bump.