Exes and O's (The Influencer, #2)(30)

“It’s like the shower,” I say. “It’s a hot fantasy, but in reality, it’s too much friction. And there’s a high risk of urinary tract infection. Especially in here. Who knows how many weirdos from this building have used it.”

A slight smile plays across his lips, but he doesn’t respond. I’ve officially made it awkward. Perhaps it’s too early to talk about sex with Trevor. We’ve only known each other for two months.

“Did you know my social media followers are obsessed with you?”

He freezes. “What?”

“You haven’t followed me yet?” I sigh, disappointed. “That time you came into my room, I was still on Live. You were in the video for a split second, and my followers liked what they saw.”

“I see. I don’t know whether to be flattered or weirded out,” he says, unimpressed with himself. It strikes me that Trevor exudes a unique brand of confidence. He carries himself with a self-assured gait, yet he doesn’t seem to know how to take a compliment. His humor is a little self-deprecating, just like mine.

Before I can respond, the rooftop door creaks open. A short, stubby man with a wispy white comb-over comes sauntering around the corner, impossibly tiny towel curled around his neck.

Trevor gives me a classic Jim from The Office look. The wide-eyed one he does into the camera when Michael Scott says or does something obscene.

“Evening.” The man nods politely as he swings a ghostly white leg into the water, testing the temperature.

I retract my original statement. This hot tub is not suitable for more than two.

When the man’s toenail inadvertently brushes my leg under the water, I stealthily shift closer to Trevor. The man doesn’t appear bothered by the close quarters. He comfortably rests both arms behind him on the edge of the hot tub, taking up more than his fair share of space.

“Gerald, from fifth,” he announces, his eyes half-closed.

“Tara and Trevor from fourth,” I respond, actively avoiding Trevor’s tight-lipped smile, because I’ll burst out laughing if I do.

It isn’t long before Gerald is barely even lucid, his head tipped back, seemingly in a state of bliss. I have no choice but to pick up where I left off, as if he’s not here. I flick water in Trevor’s direction. “Trev, tell me your life story.”

He screws up his face. It appears he’d rather do anything else. “I’m really not that interesting.”

I let out an audible growl and drag my fingertips over the water, flicking it in his direction again. “You’re so mysterious. I’m beginning to think you’re a 007 secret sleeper agent.”

He cuts me a sly grin, amused by my conspiracy theories. He gears up to splash me back, but refrains. Gerald has perked up and appears keen to listen in. “If I were a spy, I wouldn’t be living in our shitty apartment. And I most definitely wouldn’t live with a roommate who never stops talking. You’d blow my cover for sure.”

“You’re deflecting. Steering the subject away from you. That’s classic spy shit. Why are you so mysterious over the most basic things?” I urge, circling back to my original question. “You even get cagey when I ask what you ate for dinner.”

“Because I’m not that interesting. I doubt you care what I ate for dinner last night.”

“I care,” I assure him.

He shrugs lazily. “All right. You’ll regret saying that when I text you every single thing I eat and drink.” My fingers tingle at the prospect of exclusive access to his daily life, however insignificant. “Anyway, what else do you want to know? My favorite color?”

“Nah. Something I don’t know.” Like Angie’s identity.

“I never told you my favorite color.”

“It’s dark green. You have multiple dark-green T-shirts.”

He doesn’t argue that point. Instead, he plays with the bubbles for a few moments, shaking his head in amused disbelief. “What else do you know about me?”

“You’re really making me do all the work here, aren’t you?” I sigh. “Okay, fine. I know you’re good at finding deals at the grocery store.” When I first moved in, he insisted I accompany him on a Costco trip, where he examined the flyer for deals for a solid ten minutes before so much as pushing the cart down the first aisle. When I grabbed a bag of prewashed and prechopped lettuce, he nearly had a heart attack and went on a tangent about how much more “yield” I get for my money if I buy a full romaine head. His penny-pinching ways remind me of Dad, who wears his clothes until they’re so worn with holes that Mom has to purge them in secret.

“You’re a good cook too. Somehow you make vegetables look marginally less nauseating. You have a very particular way you like the dishwasher filled. And I can tell when you’ve had a good or bad day at work.”

“How?”

“When it’s a bad day, you stomp around a little and raid my snack stash before showering. When it’s a good day, you still raid my snacks, but when you shower, you hum a tune that sounds suspiciously like ‘I Knew You Were Trouble’ by Taylor Swift.”

He appears semi-amused (and doesn’t deny his shower song), so I push a little further. “Now that I’ve proven myself, I reserve the right to ask you something important.”