“Don’t you like kitsch?”
I shoot Jude a searing stare. “About as much as I like the irony of living with you.”
He chuckles, almost despite himself. “But we’re still getting a new shower curtain. I am not showering in that travesty of a bathroom with that horror of a curtain. It had about twenty layers of mold on it,” he says, shuddering.
“I’m aware. I’m the one who took it down and tossed it in the trash because you refused to even go in there and touch it.”
Jude presses his palms together. “And I am still so very grateful for your chivalry, roomie.”
I point to a white shower curtain. “How about that one?”
Jude stares at me, challenge in his eyes. “TJ, are you secretly boring?”
“No. I’m openly interesting.”
Jude scoffs, muttering out of the corner of his mouth, “Who gets a white shower curtain?”
“Who cares about the color of a shower curtain?” I ask, and yes, it’s working. We’re bickering. This will douse the flames in seconds.
Jude points at his chest. “I do. And I’m putting my foot down. We’re not getting a white shower curtain. It’s boring with a capital B. I refuse to be boring,” he says, and he squares his shoulders like he’s going to battle on this front.
“I don’t understand how the shower curtain says anything about whether you’re interesting or not. Who cares about the color of the shower curtain?”
“Everyone,” he says.
His answer awakens the beast in me, and I hiss, “You mean everyone, as in, people who are going to come over?”
“Everyone,” he emphasizes.
I grit my teeth as the creature thrashes harder in my chest. “Everyone like…?”
“Everyone like me,” he says, indignant.
Whew.
Stand down, dragon.
While that’s not an admission that he won’t bring a dude over, at least he’s picky about bathroom decor for an aesthetic reason rather than a look-tidy-for-a-hookup reason.
And maybe this whole shower curtain persnickety-ness will cure me of my lust. Please, pretty please.
“A classy bathroom sets the mood for the day,” he continues, sweeping an arm out, setting the scene. “You want to walk into the bathroom in the morning, enjoy some nice, fluffy towels, and have a shower curtain that welcomes you.”
I chuckle at his Downton Abbey-esque description. “It sounds like what you need is a valet.”
“Don’t tease me like that. A bathroom valet is only the height of my fantasies.”
“You and I have very different fantasies,” I say.
Jude grabs my arm, his touch practically singeing me, and I’m right back on the attraction merry-go-round.
Don’t let go of my arm, hottie.
“I assure you, TJ, our fantasies are not that different,” he says, low, sensual, and way too dangerous. “And I have loads of fantasies. But I’m speaking specifically of household fantasies. Don’t you have household fantasies?”
Sure, but my household fantasies are more along the lines of fucking him while he’s bent over the counter. Blowing him at the kitchen table, jerking him off behind the shower curtain. “No. I don’t,” I lie.
He lets go of my arm. “Well, I do. And mine include a nice bathroom for getting ready in the morning.”
This must be an actor thing. I’m going to have to go along with it, and hopefully, it’ll dull the shine of Jude Graham.
He waxes on about cheery colors and patterns as he sifts through the selection of shower curtains, picking up a purple one, a plaid one, a green flower one, dismissing each with a careless flick of the finger. “We want something with a little perk.”
“Perky shower curtains,” I repeat, processing this term. “I didn’t know that was a thing.”
“How about something bright and yellow?” Jude suggests.
I wave a hand dismissively at the selection on the shelves. “Sounds fine. Just pick.”
He laughs deeply, very oh, silly boy. “You didn’t think I was going to let you pick, did you, TJ? If you picked, it’d be something you ordered from Zazzle and with a guy in a bathrobe on it.”
“The dude?” I point to my shirt, the one with the illustration of Jeff Bridges’s iconic character from one of the greatest cult classics ever.
“Yes. Or Tetris,” Jude adds.
Fine, if he’s going to poke at me like that, I can poke back. “You didn’t have a problem with my Tetris shirt last night,” I point out.
Jude slides just an inch closer, lowers his voice. “Actually, I did.”
I put my hands on my hips. “What was the problem?”
His eyes sparkle as he tugs at the fabric of my shirt again. “My problem . . .” He takes a deliberate pause as he holds the material in those fingers. My blood heats as I imagine those fingers tearing that shirt off me, then traveling down my chest. “Was that it was on.”
I laugh—I wasn’t expecting that. Jude laughs too, then turns away from me, which is for the best. If he keeps looking at me like that, with flirt in his eyes, I just might grab his face and kiss the fuck out of him in the shower curtain aisle at TK Maxx.
I move to new topics. “I’m getting the sense you’re saying I have no style?”
Jude swivels around and adopts a too-sweet expression. “Let’s just say, the way I feel about your style”—he waves a hand dismissively at my T-shirt then at the shelves of curtains—“is on par with how you feel about my love of Led Zeppelin.”
Yes! Another thing we don’t have in common. Shower curtains, clothing style, and musical taste will work in combination to turn me off. “Fine, go ahead and play Zeppelin tonight. It’s cool,” I say with a shrug.
He snort-laughs. “Oh, please. You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m not lying,” I lie.
Jude stares at me with a smile that says he’s caught me red-handed. “You only want me to play Zeppelin so you don’t think about me naked.”
Jesus.
He’s electric. He’s unstoppable.
“Feel free to add in Jethro Tull, then too,” I say. I’ve got to try to keep up with him.
“Wait. I figured you out. You hate all the English rock bands that had their heyday in the seventies?”
“Yup. But not just English bands. American ones too. Case in point: The Allman Brothers Band.” I cringe for effect. “Queen aside, the seventies were a musical wasteland worldwide.”
“But what about ABBA?” He sounds like hating the Swedish pop group is blasphemy.
“Especially ABBA. So yeah, feel free to love on them all you want,” I challenge.
With curious eyes, Jude seems to size me up. “Because . . .” He wags a finger. “Because that would help our necessary friendship? If I love the bands you hate?”
“Yes, exactly.” Though, so far, that doesn’t appear to be true whatsoever.
He stares at me like a cat, taking his sweet time. “No. I don’t think I will play them.”
“Why not?” I ask like I don’t care, but I really want to hate him. I swear I do.
“Because I think you’d rather I play some alt-rock. Some cool new bands. Something I find in the clubs. I bet that’s your scene, right?”