The Feel Good Factor(19)

He’s serious.

There’s no hint of a ruse. No secret smile underneath it all. He’s not playing some sort of joke on me, because when he does, Shaw usually breaks under pressure quickly.

He’s not breaking. He’s not bending either. Carefully, I ask my brother, “You planned this after I told you about him at dinner yesterday?”

Derek, brow furrowed in a frown, cuts in. “It’s okay, Perri. Don’t worry about it. I can find another place to stay.”

And all I can figure is he’s annoyed I mentioned him to my brother at all. Come to think of it, I’d probably be annoyed too.

Shaw jumps in. “Listen, I need to jet. I’m meeting Gabe at the gym. But be nice to each other. Remember, the key to being good roomies is respect, tolerance, and privacy.”

Shaw hauls me in for a big brotherly hug. “It’s going to be great. Aren’t you proud of me for being helpful?”

“Pride is not the dominant emotion I’m feeling right now,” I deadpan.

If we were alone, I’d give him a piece of my mind. I’d give him a full serving, plus a second helping of are you fucking insane?

Shaw tips his imaginary hat. “Looks like my work is done.” He wipes one hand against the other, trots down the steps, gets into his truck, and peels away.

Leaving me standing in the doorway looking at the man I want to jump.

The man who’s my new . . . housemate?





12





Perri





I’m obviously an asshole.

But still.

Am I truly supposed to rent the room above my garage to this . . . specimen?

Yes, that’s exactly the word I was searching for.

Derek is an exemplary specimen of a man. All inked, muscled, tall, dark, and handsome, crooked-grinned man. With a square jaw to boot, deliciously covered in a neat, trim beard I want to feel against my inner thighs.

Fuck.

I am a dirty girl.

A bad, naughty vixen who objectifies too-hot-for-words men.

But seriously. The man radiates sex appeal. I bet cats everywhere rub their faces against his legs to mark him. The man was built for sex. He’s the stuff of panty-melting ovary explosions.

Which means this is a predicament, since I have a bit of cat in me and I’d like to rub up against him.

Derek glances at the sidewalk, and for the first time since our encounter on the side of the road, his cocky veneer is stripped off. “Why don’t I hit the road? I’ll go back to my sister’s house. This was obviously some sort of misunderstanding.”

“Obviously,” I say, but a sliver of guilt festers under my skin. “Because it’s weird. Right? It would be weird if you were my housemate.”

He nods quickly, reaching to pick up his bag. “Totally weird.”

Then I recall Shaw’s words. My brother actually said Derek and I could practice kissing. That means Derek doesn’t simply know I mentioned him to Shaw—he knows I told Shaw about our kiss. Red spots of embarrassment flame across my cheeks. “Wait, Derek.” I grab his arm before he picks up the bag. “I didn’t tell him to find you and rent it to you. I didn’t know you guys knew each other. Please don’t think I was trying to trap you or anything.”

He chuckles lightly. “You mean you aren’t trying to trap me?”

“I’m so not trying to trap you. I’m trying to kick you out,” I say, laughing, then I let go of his arm.

“I don’t feel trapped, for what it’s worth.” He doesn’t reach for the bag.

“I said something about entering a kissing contest with a guy who had sunburst tattoos,” I say, my eyes straying to his arms. Dear God, his arms. I want to feel them pinning me down, to stare at them as he moves above me.

I shake my head, trying to snap out of it.

“You like my ink?” he asks.

“I do.”

“I have more where that came from,” he says in that low, deep voice that’s an injection of pure liquid pleasure.

So is the vision he’s painted—the idea that art covers his body in places I can’t see right now. I try to wave off the wild images of his hips, his lower back, his abdomen. “Anyway, sorry about the misunderstanding. There wasn’t a trap or plan. Shaw was just being Shaw.”

“It’s all good. I’ll head back to Jodie’s. There’s a couch there calling my name.” This time, he grabs his duffel and slings it over his shoulder. It looks like it weighs three hundred pounds.

I peer around for his bike, but don’t see it. “You’re going to walk back with all your stuff?”

“It’s no big deal. It’s good training for work.”

I point to the bag. “Is that all you have?”

“Yeah, but listen, it’s all good.”

But it’s not all good. It’s all . . . weird. It’s all awkward. And it’s all so uncomfortable—for him.

The man is living on his sister’s couch, out of a duffel.

I’m not heartless enough to kick him completely to the curb. “Why don’t you come in, and we can talk. I’ll try to help you figure something out. Do you like wine?”

His lips curve up. “Am I in trouble if I say no?”