Exes and O's (The Influencer, #2)(5)

“Much appreciated,” I say genuinely. It’s nice knowing the surface I eat my Pop-Tarts over will be void of bodily fluids.

A few beats go by. “So, uh, are you ever gonna come out of the bathroom?”

“That depends. Are you still naked?”

“I’m fully decent, I swear.”

I press my cheek closer to the door, craving the vibrations of his voice. “I might stay in here a little longer. It’s comfortable.” This tiny space is actually kind of soothing, reminiscent of a Scandinavian spa.

His footsteps disappear down the hall, only to return a few seconds later. “I have Cheetos. And don’t worry, I washed my hands.”

My mouth waters instantly at the tried-and-true sound of a crunching bag. Be still my heart. I reach to turn the knob, opening the door wide enough to make a grabby-hands motion through the crack. He’s still not visible, with the exception of his hand as he passes the bag like a dicey drug deal. There’s a light dusting of ashy-brown hair on his wrist and knuckles. His palm is massive, almost twice the size of mine. I catch the tail end of a detailed, dark-gray tattoo in the area below his thumb, but before I can make out the design, his hand disappears behind the door.

Starved, I descend on the bag, ripping it open like an ape. In the span of under three minutes, I’ve demolished at least a quarter. Ashamed of my blatant gluttony, I slide it back through the crack. “Sorry, I’ve had a traumatic day.”

The bag crunches. “Shit. Because of me?”

“No. My day was already a wash before you.”

“Why?” he asks, passing the bag back.

“Today was supposed to mark a brand-new start. A turning point in my life. But I got mugged on the subway,” I admit through a crunch, “by a guy with some serious soul mate potential. The meet-cute was going so well until he stole my purse.”

“Wait, you got mugged? And what’s a meet-cute?” He repeats meet-cute slowly, like it’s a foreign concept. I watch his large hand reach through the crack for the Cheetos. There’s a Roman numeral tattoo on his wrist, partially obscured by his sleeve. I take a mental photo so I can decipher it later.

“A meet-cute is when two love interests meet for the first time,” I rattle off impatiently. “But yes. I got mugged. I was reading on the subway when this guy next to me started chatting me up. You should have seen this guy, Metcalfe. He was a snack. Definitely didn’t look like a mugger. Not that muggers have a particular look, but you know what I mean . . .”

We pass the bag back and forth as I rehash the story of Nate, from that initial moment of eye contact to when he jacked my purse (and all my hopes and dreams).

“Well, that’s shit luck either way,” he says, sympathetic to my plight.

“Right? I’m starting to lose hope. Every time I meet a potential man, something goes horribly wrong. The last guy I met through a friend seemed normal, until he requested photos of my feet.”

“Foot fetish?”

“Apparently. I don’t want to fetish-shame, but I think I’m cursed. Today it’s a mugging. Tomorrow, probably a kidnapping. Some guy will lure me to his car with candy. I’ll go because I like free food. And he’ll toss me in the trunk and set my body on fire.” I grimace at the missed opportunity of flaunting my latest favorite number, a high-neck pink dress, in an open-casket funeral. I’ve already advised Crystal of my wish to be buried in it, and she’s assured me she’ll make it happen.

“Okay, that got dark real fast. This is why you should never trust strangers with candy,” Trevor warns.

“Technically you’re a stranger, with Cheetos,” I remind him, fishing a rogue Cheeto from the floor. I toss it in the trash can next to the sink.

“You’re a stranger too. In my bathroom. Who knows what you’ve done to my toothbrush.”

I have the sudden urge to change our stranger status. The hinges squeak as I pull the door open, poking my head out like a meerkat emerging from the protection of its sandy burrow.

Trevor is, indeed, fully clothed, back resting against the wall, long legs extended in front of him.

The top of his effortlessly tousled mop of dark hair juxtaposes with the short, neatly trimmed sides. Even through his Boston Fire Department hoodie, his biceps are mature, unyielding tree trunks. In comparison, mine are flimsier than a rice noodle.

His Adam’s apple bobs as he takes in my disheveled ponytail riddled with dry shampoo, scanning downward over my oversize maroon sweatshirt, which reads Nonfictional feelings for fictional men in Times New Roman font.

Now that he isn’t nude and his tattoos are adequately covered, I’m able to assess his eyes. They’re the color of honey, like an inferno of crackling firewood resisting merciless golden flames. They probably take on a mossy hue when the light hits them just right. Under the protective swoop of dense lashes, they’re foreboding, guarded. And when his gaze meets mine, my stomach betrays me with an uncalled-for barrel roll.

In an effort to maintain an iota of normalcy, I squint to blur his face out of focus, distracting myself with a humungous Cheeto. “Should I trust you, deliriously handsome stranger?”

His mouth shapes into a crooked smile as he stands, towering over me on the bathroom floor. “Nah. Probably not.”





? chapter three