The Roommate Agreement(10)
“From the person who talks to people who don’t exist? That’s a bit rich.”
“Hey.” She whirled on me, brandishing the feather duster as a weapon with it pointed right at my chest. “I know I’m weird. It’s the people like you who don’t admit it who are the ones we need to watch out for.”
I rolled my eyes and sat back on the sofa. Sure. I was the weird one; not the girl who wandered around in tiny shorts, without a bra, her hair a mess atop of her head at six a.m. on a Sunday.
Aha. That was another one.
Decent clothes.
I scribbled that on the agreement.
Shelby shut the door with a click and peered over at me. “What are you writing? If it’s permission to use the feather duster as a sex toy, the answer is no. Unless you buy your own, but if you haven’t figured out where the laundry room is yet, I doubt you’ll find where to buy one.”
She was as funny as a car crash, this one.
“Hilarious,” I drawled. “No, I’m making amendments as I go. I added a new rule.”
“You added a new rule?” She raised one dark eyebrow and walked over, hovering over me. “All right, what is it?”
“Decent clothes must be worn. Do you know how many times I wake up early on a morning to open the gym and find you basically in your underwear in the kitchen?”
“Basically in my underwear? Who are you seeing in the kitchen? I wear shorts and a tank top at the very least.”
“Yes, but the shorts barely cover your ass, and you’re sure as hell not wearing a bra.”
She paused, eyes glittering as she said, “And why are you looking at my ass and my boobs?”
That was an excellent question.
“Because there’s nowhere else to look!” I rushed out before my stupid cock could get any ideas. “Look, waking up in the morning can be challenging for a guy.”
She stared at me.
“I don’t need to get up for a coffee with… you know.” I motioned to my groin. “And see you half-clothed.”
She flicked her hair over her shoulder and walked to the kitchen, turning her back to me. “Why does it matter? I’m your best friend. I hardly think your little friend is remotely interested in whether or not I’m wearing a bra.”
Yeah, well, he is.
“Fine. If I have to wake up and see your perky nipples prancing around the kitchen, I’m going to stroll around in my underwear so you can get a good view of my morning glory.”
She spun, lifting up a finger. Her cheeks were flushed, and she had to swallow before she could speak. “My nipples do not prance. They are not horses.”
I grinned.
“Also, I have no desire to have anything to do with your morning erection, much less get a good view of it, thank you very much.”
“Have I told you that you’re cute when you blush?”
“Have I told you that you’d be a cute dead guy?”
I laughed, leaning back on the sofa. “C’mon, Shelbs. We need to respect each other’s privacy. You don’t want to see my cock hard over your breakfast, and I don’t want to see your nipples standing to attention when I make a coffee.”
She sighed. “Why did I ever let you move in again?”
“Because I was going to be homeless and you’re the best friend ever?”
“Mm.” She grabbed her coffee from the machine and leaned against the counter, cradling it against her chest. “Okay—fine. I accept that. What other changes have you made?”
“Every Sunday is a sports day, no matter the team or sport.”
She clenched her jaw. “I suppose that’s fair.”
“That killed you to say, didn’t it?”
“Get on with it before I kill you.”
I chuckled. “You either have to put a label on your Oreos or keep them in your room, or I’m not responsible for eating them. If I don’t know they’re yours…”
“You’re just being a picky little bastard now.”
“Hey, I’m only on rule five. You’re the one who made…what? Twenty-five-ish of them?” I shrugged and picked up the pen, giving it a pointed click. “Now it’s my turn.”
She sighed, dropping her head back. “I knew I’d regret this.”
CHAPTER FIVE – SHELBY
The Feather Duster Is Your Friend
I typed the treasured two words that made me feel like magic at the end of every manuscript with a sigh.
They’d feel more magic if this book belonged to me, but alas, this was paying some of the bills this month.
I saved the document and opened up my email account, ready to compose a new message to send the book to my ghostwriting client. It wasn’t my favorite way to earn money since I was trying to get a stronghold in the industry myself, but my own books and the random bits of freelance work I got from local newspapers didn’t earn enough to keep me in Oreos, never mind my apartment.
This particular client was an easy one for me—she sent me the bones of a draft, and I picked it apart and put it back together again. I didn’t know much about her except that she loved to write but her day job got in the way, so she sent every book to me to fix up.
I liked it. I didn’t have to use much brain power and I got a nice chunk of money in my bank account every two months.