Chase Me (Broke and Beautiful #1)(21)

Unfortunately, turning down free food was sacrilege in her personal religion. Free food was to be cherished and treated with respect. Every morsel savored. She’d eaten too many meals involving ramen noodles and stale Wonder Bread to forgo the opportunity to try out her roommate’s latest creation. She’d been caught a little off guard by Honey’s willingness to share, as if it were a foregone conclusion. With her Southern accent and constant presence in the kitchen, she reminded Roxy of those women in old-timey cartoons who left apple pies cooling on the windowsill. A nurturer.

She shook off those bizarre thoughts. At least this time she’d come prepared with a bottle of tequila to contribute. Honey and Abby seemed determined to create some kind of evening meal ritual. Apparently Roxy had gotten shacked up with a couple of functional human beings. That shit should have been in the ad, really.

The first two nights, she’d taken a plate and slunk off to her room, feeling like a moocher. She’d listened to them discuss their day through her cracked bedroom door, wanting to know more about them against her will. Honey came home and cooked between classes at Columbia. Abby, true to her word, didn’t have any friends, so she’d taken to the friendly, guileless Honey like, well, a fly to honey. But where did Roxy fit in? Her conversational comfort zone started and ended with a snappy greeting and an exit strategy. Not a play-by-play of her day.

Oddly, she found herself feeling kind of left out as her roommates bonded a little more each day. Which made no sense, since her exile was self-imposed. Still, the sticky feeling remained. Why couldn’t they just avoid each other like typical New York City roommates and communicate via a dry-erase board in the kitchen?

Tonight, she intended to keep alive her streak of dining and dashing, but at least she’d come bearing a gift this time to alleviate her increasing guilt. Booze for biscuits. A fair trade if she’d ever heard one. Hopefully it would distract her roommates long enough to make off with her dinner to the safety of her room. Maybe she didn’t have a bosom buddy, but at least she had her view. Last night, she’d found herself staring out over Ninth Avenue, taking comfort in the wave of cabs that came with each cycle of green lights, people dipping out of their apartment buildings long enough to grab something from the corner bodega.

Okay, so she’d pretended to be fascinated by the creature habits of her new Chelsea neighbors, but her mind had actually been on the Lower East Side with a certain physically blessed lawyer. She’d debated with herself, one half determined to stay away from him until Saturday, one half dying to jump on the train, travel downtown, and knock on his door. Images had tangoed behind her eyelids as she’d tried to sleep. Images of what Louis would do if he found her on his doorstep at midnight, obviously there for one shameless reason. Would they even make it to the bedroom, or would she end flat on her back in the entryway? Or maybe she’d be on top . . .

The first time you ride me, I’m going to grip your ass just like this.

Roxy’s neck flushed hot. Tomorrow night felt ten years away. With a deep breath, she took out her key and opened the door. “Honey, I’m home!”

Honey squeaked.

Biscuits went flying everywhere.

It happened in slow motion, like something out of a bad dream. A terrible event was occurring, but Roxy’s feet wouldn’t move. Standing in the doorway with her mouth dropped open, she was totally useless. Not that she could prevent the tragedy, but if she’d been quicker to the punch, she might have caught at least a couple of them midair, like tiny Frisbees of goodness. One by one, the little handfuls of doughy perfection hit the hardwood floor, the subtle poff sounds they made a taunting proof of their fluffiness.

Honey stood in the kitchen, baking pan in hand, looking like she was in denial. Abby walked out from her bedroom and stared at the mess for a moment before shrugging and walking purposefully toward the broom closet. Did she actually intend to sweep those suckers up?

“Oh no, you don’t.” Roxy let the door slam behind her. “Ten second rule.”

She lunged for the floor. At the same time, Honey tossed the pan onto the counter with a clatter and joined her on hands and knees. When Roxy picked up the first biscuit, she realized she hadn’t thought this genius plan all the way through. Fresh from the oven, biscuits were hot as hell. Still, no way was she letting them go to waste. Not going to happen. Tossing the first flaky casualty between her hands like a hot potato, she huffed and puffed her way to the counter, dropped it, and went back for more. After a few trips, she noticed that Abby had joined them, too, transporting biscuits from floor to counter as if they were wounded soldiers on a battlefield. Their concentrated, semi-pained expressions were what finally did it. The situation was just too absurd. Roxy plopped down Indian-style on her butt and started to laugh.

“What are you doing?” Honey demanded. “You’re the one who called ten second rule.”

Roxy laughed harder. “I know, it’s just . . . no biscuit left behind . . . give me biscuits or give me death . . . ?”

It was a disjointed ramble, but Honey seemed to interpret her military comparison. She dropped the biscuit being passed between her hands and giggled under her breath.

Abby stood and grabbed an oven mitt off the counter, carrying the remains of the baked goods to the counter with casual grace. “I might have spoken too soon the other day when I called you both relatively normal.”

“It took you this long to realize that?” Roxy reached back toward the door and retrieved the bottle of tequila she’d set on the ground to participate in Operation Biscuit Salvage. “Can I interest anyone in a drink?”