Exes and O's (The Influencer, #2)(7)
The moment Gabby leaves to catch her Uber, Trevor sneaks down the hallway, freshly showered. His ashy hair is damp, unsure which way it wants to fall. A pair of gray sweatpants hangs low on his hips, and of course he’s shirtless.
When he spots me parked on the stool at the island, I zero in on the intricate bird wing sweeping from his robust right shoulder and over part of his sculpted chest. He has a smattering of other tattoos on his arms and back, as well as another set of Roman numerals on his left rib. And while he makes a regular habit of waltzing around shirtless, identifying the particulars of each design is like solving a jigsaw puzzle, slowly but surely, piece by piece.
Today, I follow the sweeping wing leading to the bird’s expressive eyes. Even colorless, there’s a ferocity that screams to be noticed.
“Is she gone?” he whispers before so much as setting a toe into the open-concept kitchen and living area.
“No. I asked her to be our third roommate.” My tone is far too sarcastic for early morning, but I don’t know how else to act after hearing that (and accidently visualizing it). As he enters the kitchen, my chest erupts in ugly red blotches, heat dotting the crests of my cheeks. I think I need to lie down. “Didn’t we talk about nudity in common areas?”
“I’ll throw on a shirt if you clean up your books.” He waves a vague hand toward the stack of paperbacks in the corner under the living room window. I used them for a book-stack-challenge photo shoot two days ago and have yet to move them back to my room, despite his numerous requests. In the meantime, he’s piled them alphabetically.
Trevor has a phobia of clutter, which I’m discreetly desensitizing him to by adding a few personal touches one by one, so as not to spook him. My first add was my heart-shaped throw pillows, then the succulents, and, most recently, an admittedly revolting starry-sky canvas painted by yours truly at a wine-and-paint night. Trevor says it hurts his eyes.
“I told you the other day, I have no more room on my bookshelf. And you should be thanking me for adding character to the place. Your apartment was a cliché barren wasteland of nothingness before I moved in,” I rightly point out.
If I had to describe my new apartment in one word, it would be minimalist, and even that’s being too kind. Before I moved in, every wall and surface was bare, void of any clutter, color, or décor. To be fair, it wasn’t always this way. Apparently, Scott took lots of stuff with him when he moved in with Crystal, leaving only a limited amount of basic furniture in the form of exactly one worn leather couch and matching armchair, a flat-screen television, and a small maple dining table tucked in the corner of the equally bland off-white kitchen.
I continue on. “And if you’re going to keep having loud sex while I’m across the hall, the least you could do is let me decorate.” My expression is pointed. The man disturbed my much-needed tranquility, after all.
He smirks as he opens the fridge. “Hey, I can’t control other people’s volumes.”
“Sounded like Gabby had a good time, at least.”
He tosses a ziplock bag of frozen kale on the counter, narrowing a suspicious gaze at the crumb-filled plates on the island. “Did you give her a Pop-Tart?”
I lift a shoulder, watching as he dumps a handful of kale into the blender. “She was hungry, and you didn’t feed her.”
His eyes bulge, like I’ve just suggested he take her hand in marriage, which I’m half-tempted to do. “Why would I feed her afterward?”
I make a sour face, pinning my stare at the swirly design on my plate and definitely not the swirly design on his immaculate bod. “To thank her for the sex? You could have at least walked her out. She’s so cool. Did you know she has a scuba diving certification?”
There’s a break in the conversation as he blends his smoothie to a puree. “That’s not how a one-night stand works.”
“Do you mind if I invite her over this weekend? We’re best friends now,” I gloat, mesmerized as he pours his healthy concoction into a tall glass. “I think you’d like her, if you got to know her. She’s wifey material.” I give him what I already know is a nauseating wink, mostly to get a reaction out of him.
He maintains his death glare as he tips his head back, guzzling. “I’m not looking for wifey material, Chen.” He sets the empty glass on the counter and marches down the hall, but not before casting one last glower at the Pop-Tart crumbs on the plates.
I follow him to his room, leaning on the doorframe like a swoony romance hero. A glimpse into Trevor’s room is a rare opportunity, given that he usually keeps his door closed. The moment my big toe crosses the threshold, I’m giddy, tempted to snort that spicy signature scent like Leo, Wolf of Wall Street–style.
With an effortless tug, he pulls the fitted steel-gray sheet from his mattress, tossing it into the laundry basket nestled in his intensely organized, color-coded closet.
Meanwhile, I’ve declared a state of emergency in my room. Books are strewn haphazardly on my nightstand and every available surface. At least seven throw pillows have taken up permanent real estate on the floor. Trevor must think I’m a disaster.
I fold my arms over my chest, unable to take him seriously. “Can I ask you a question?”
“No,” he grumbles, his eyes fixed on his phone. I catch a brief half smile as he scans a text and quickly fires off a response. I idly wonder if he’s texting Gabby, or someone new already.