The Coaching Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #4)(59)

“I was, uh…trying to save on electricity.”

“Trying to save on electricity,” he repeats, crossing his arms, clearly entertained. “Is that so?”

“You’re lucky I didn’t hide and try to scare the crap out of you.”

Elliot smiles then, biting down on his bottom lip the way I do when I’m being coy. On him, it’s even more endearing.

“I thought we’d eat together when I got home. Aren’t you starving? It’s almost six o’clock.”

My stomach turns, but not from hunger. It’s from nerves, thousands of them crackling to life in my lower abs. I place a hand there to quell them.

“I wouldn’t get mad if you fed me.”

“I threw that lasagna Linda dropped off Tuesday in the oven while you were at class.” Elliot enters my bedroom, sitting on my bed, legs spread. Hands clasped in his lap. “Sorry I haven’t texted you all day—I left my phone in my gym bag and it fell to the bottom. Was too lazy to dig it out.”

“You don’t have to tell me where you’re at—I’m not your gatekeeper.”

I’m also not his girlfriend.

“Maybe not, but still.”

We sit in silence for a few moments, the only sound coming from the earbuds I removed earlier, the tiny speakers blasting a song so old and outdated I should be ashamed of myself.

I have terrible taste in music; all my friends tell me so.

My bed is a twin, so Elliot reclining back takes half the space, his hands patting down the area around him, patting down my white comforter, feeling it up.

He shoots me a look. “We’ll never be able to sleep in here, this bed is way too small—you realize that, right?”

I lean forward so our noses touch. “Are you scoping out my bedroom, St. Charles?”

“I’m just stating facts in case you’re entertaining the notion of me crashing in here with you.”

Entertaining the notion. I love it when he uses big words.

“Last night wasn’t about just sex—do you understand that?”

“Last night and this morning.” I laugh nervously. “But who’s keeping track?”

“Answer the question, Anabelle.”

My shoulders rise and fall. “Maybe. Just a little?”

“You’ve been sleeping in my bed for at least a week—not that anyone is keeping track,” he jokes back. “Do you think I’d make you stop because we had sex last night?”

“I have not been sleeping with you for a week!” Have I? “I like my little bed—why would I want to leave?”

“Bullshit, you do not! We’ve done nothing but eat pizza and binge on Netflix for the past seven nights.”

“Well that’s because you have the only bedroom with a TV—duh.”

His arms go around my waist, dragging me onto his lap, knocking half my crap off the bed in the process. I’m kissed soundly on the lips as highlighters, pens, and notebooks go crashing to the ground.

“You like my big TV,” he murmurs into my mouth. “Don’t lie, Donnelly.”

“I do.” I shiver. “It gets me all excited just thinking about it.”

“I’ll be honest. I thought about TV all goddamn day.” His hand is making slow circles along my spine and he pats my rear.

“Really…did you now? TV with anyone in particular?”

“Wait, we are still talking about actually watching television, aren’t we?” Elliot laughs, giving me a chaste kiss on the cheek, scooting me off his lap so he can stand. Stretch. “I’m going to take a shower—I stink.”

“Wow, sexy. If you’re lucky, I’ll even be here when you get back.”

“You’re cute.”

“So are you.”

“Check the oven for me?”

“Are you cooking for me now, St. Charles?” I can already smell the pasta and Italian aromas wafting from the kitchen, my mouth watering, stomach growling.

“Sure am.”

We eat standing at the counter when he’s out of the shower, forgoing the table, lasagna on paper plates. We already dug into the pan the night Linda kindly dropped it off, so it’s half gone.

I poke at one of the noodles, folding it with my fork and shove it in my mouth, feeling self-conscious when some of it slips out and I have to grab it with my fingers to prevent it from falling on the floor. Sauce drips from my chin, fingers, and the collar of my shirt.

Shit.

Elliot catches me, a secretive smile playing at his lips; he’s a gentleman and hides it, turning his head and burying it in his shoulder.

Ugh.

Cleanup is easy; we just toss our plates, quickly draw some suds in the sink to wash the utensils, both of us dipping our hands beneath the water at the same time, grasping for the silverware to scrub them clean.

I bump his hip playfully, flirting, and he removes his hands from the sudsy water, drying them on a nearby towel, moves to stand behind me. Skims those glorious hands down to my waist, nose buried in the crook of my neck.

“I wasn’t just thinking about TV all day, I was thinking about this.” His lips find the pulse in my neck, kissing it. “About you.”

In reply, my lids slide closed, hands still submerged in the water. “You were thinking about me?”