The bulge of his morning wood is like a target for my vision, and I can’t look away from the shape of him in those soft gray flannel pants.
I try valiantly, pulling my gaze up, up, and away.
And my brain fills with static because he’s shirtless and beautiful. Jude’s smaller than I am, leaner than I am. His golden skin is smooth and makes my mouth water. He’s toned in all the right ways, and I want to pounce on him, hold him down, and kiss every inch of him as he writhes and moans.
The entire image is too much. I’ll combust if I stay here any longer. Somehow, I manage to take out the earbuds, just to be polite. “Good luck with your audition,” I say, forcing my gaze away from him as I stuff my phone into my pocket.
“Good luck with your first day at work,” he says as I reach for the doorknob. “By the way, I was right about the shower curtain, wasn’t I?”
Right about what? Oh. Sure. He’s into color. “Yeah, it’s perky,” I say quickly, opening the door, ready to bolt.
“It sure is. But I also meant the right one could make the shower more enjoyable. Wouldn’t you say? At least, it was quite enjoyable for me. The sound of the shower and all,” he adds.
Busted.
I close my eyes, let the embarrassment run through me, then I steal a glance at Jude. He heads for the kettle, and as he goes, I can see the hint of a satisfied smile.
I leave.
One down. Three hundred and sixty-four to go.
10
I’m Addicted to the Goat’s Navel
Jude
* * *
Olivia is enjoying my personal hell far too much. The wicked minx cackles as I give her the roomie update as we walk down the street on Thursday afternoon.
“You’re the worst,” I tell her as we pass The Duck’s Nipple, a pub that stocks some of the freshest new beers to hit the market. But it also reminds me of a band TJ sent me a note about this morning, saying, Check out this playlist. I challenge you not to become addicted when you listen.
Addicted to The Goat’s Navel? Is that a real name? I’d replied.
Don’t judge a band by its name.
How else would we judge? I wrote back.
Just listen, Jude.
I’ve listened to the band, but I haven’t replied yet. I don’t want to seem overeager.
As we turn the corner, Olivia flicks her red hair off her shoulder. “Tell me one more time—how hard is it to live with the guy you want to shag?”
I roll my eyes. “The hardest. There. Does that satisfy your inner demon?”
The she-devil gives a too-big grin. “I’m not sure this tale will ever grow old.”
“So glad I can entertain you,” I say as I point to a café. “But I can’t deny you. Let’s get a cuppa.”
“Always,” she says. Five minutes later, we’re parked outside the café, watching afternoon crowds flit down a busy street full of festive shops, including Out of the Closet, a thrift shop I like. I make a mental note to bring TJ there this weekend, perhaps—a fair trade for The Goat’s Navel, especially when I tell him the story of the shop’s name.
“So, tell me every dirty detail of this week,” Olivia demands as she dunks a chocolate biscuit in her tea. “What have the last few nights been like?”
Surprisingly easy. “I thought it would be terrible. But I’ve been at the bookshop every night, and he works all day. I didn’t even see him on Tuesday.”
“Like, at all?” she asks when she finishes her biscuit.
I shrug. “Not once. And on Wednesday, I saw him for maybe five minutes at eleven at night. He came home then. Actually, I think he was home quite late on Tuesday too. Maybe after me.”
She arches a brow. “Do you think he was out meeting less handsome men than you? I mean, obviously, they’d be less handsome.”
“Obviously.” I drink some Earl Grey to wash away the thought of TJ meeting other men. “Anyway, I suppose he could be seeing other guys.”
Olivia pats my hand. “Maybe he’s just making new friends here. It’s not a terrible thing if he is. I mean, it’d be good if you don’t see each other more than you have to. I imagine you wanted to climb him like a tree during those five minutes of togetherness?”
“As a matter of fact, yes, I did. Thanks for reminding me, minx.”
Another devilish smile. “So, when he came home late, did he look all freshly fucked?”
I groan at the image of a freshly-fucked TJ—though, I suspect it’s the other way around, which works for me. “No. He returns with his laptop. So, I dunno—maybe he’s just working, covering the markets. I suppose he has late story deadlines. Then he’s up early in the morning. He goes for a run. And then he comes home and showers, and makes toast, and heads off.”
“Hmm.”
“What’s that ‘hmm’ for?”
“For someone who’s trying to be just friendly, you know an awful lot about his habits.”
“Well, he is my roommate. I would hope I know something,” I say defensively.
She tuts as she swirls the last biscuit in her tea. “You seem to know an awful lot about his habits in the morning when you’re sleeping,” she amends, then devours the treat.
“I hear him get up! I’m a light sleeper. Besides, are you trying to catch me in something? In still lusting after him? I fucking admitted I want him to bang me.”
She laughs but then shifts gears, softening as she asks, “What’s he like?”
That’s easy. “Snarky. Witty. Likes to knock me down a peg. Also, helpful. He fixed the sink and the drawer in my dresser. It was squeaking on Monday, but the squeaking stopped Monday night, so he must have fixed it while I was out.” I keep to myself that when I texted to thank him, he replied with Just call me Tool Johnson.
“So . . . you like him?”
“What do you mean?”
She only arches a brow.
“What are you saying, Liv?” I press. I hate unsaid things. I hate when she observes me and doesn’t just spit it out.
“I’m saying I don’t think you just want to shag him, Jude,” she says, uncharacteristically salt-free. “It sounds like you like the guy. You just told me how he fixed a drawer,” she says, too bloody observant.
Good thing I didn’t mention he sent me a playlist. Or that we texted about it.
I don’t want to like TJ in the way she means. Not after my university ex left me, saying I just don’t feel the same way for you as he walked out the door with a casual shrug while sawing my heart in half.
“I have no interest in liking someone after Robert,” I say coolly.
“Robert was a twat,” Olivia says.
“I know, but I’m the twat who fell for the twat.”
“It happens to the best of us. It’s not your fault.”
“But it is my fault if I go out and get involved with someone else.” I hear myself and shake my head. “What in the holy fuck am I saying? I’m not getting involved. And I’m definitely not getting involved with my roomie. I’m not getting involved with anyone.”
“Good. Then we can all go out sometime and have fun. As friends,” Olivia says. “Let’s get the crew together. Shane and Amanda and Archie.”