“I have to say, it’s a nice look for you,” he murmurs. “Now we just need a stripper pole in here…”
I roll my eyes, go to my closet, pull out an HU fleece jacket, and jab my arms into it while he looks around the room.
I watch him warily as he paces around my space, taking in the bookshelves bolted to the wall and the attached desk where I have my laptop. He stops a few feet from my bed and takes in the collage of Post-it notes I’ve stuck up above it. They’re all done in hot pink and neon yellow and it’s quite garish, but I get a buzz when I read them.
He leans in over my bed. “Modern art?”
I snort. “More like modern shit.”
He plucks one of the squares of paper and stares down at it.
I shuffle my feet and take a seat on the chair next to the TV. I want to keep as much distance between him and me as I can, and I tug at the edges of my soft jacket, not quite meeting his gaze. “Those are my way of dealing with Bennett. We broke up in December, and coupled with the holidays, it was rough.”
His gaze goes to the daisies in the corner. “Bennett Walsh, lead singer of the Orange Bird band, generally a popular guy and might well be on his way to a big-time music career? Am I right?”
My mouth pops open. “You asked around about me?”
He shrugs. “After he was thrown in my face, I had to go look him up.”
I chuckle. “You can’t keep up with my stalking skills, Z.”
He looks down at the Post-it, his gaze thoughtful, and I say, “Go on, read it. It made me feel good to write those.”
He clears his throat. “Dear Future Boyfriend.” He pauses. “Is this to anyone in particular?”
“No.”
He nods, continuing. “Dear Future Boyfriend, Thank you for not taking mirror selfies of your hot bod and posting them on social media. Also thank you for not sending me the poop emoji when you text me.” He throws his head back and laughs. “He did these things?”
“The man has no boundaries.”
With an intrigued expression on his face, he plucks down another one. “Dear Future Boyfriend, Thank you for not calling me babe.” His eyes widen. “Shit, you really, really do have a thing about that.”
“Indeed.” I take a sip of my drink.
He snatches another one, glee on his face.
“Those are really personal, you know. It’s kind of a big deal to let you see them.”
“How else will I get to know my new girlfriend?”
“Fake girlfriend, and are we still together?”
“Miss Ryan, hell yes we are still together. Tonight was just a bump in the road.”
I blush. Okaaay.
He clears his throat. “Dear Future Boyfriend, You singing “I Want It That Way” to me last night at the karaoke bar was the highlight of my week. I promise you a blowjob later.” He bends over, laughing.
“What?” I say indignantly.
He grabs his stomach. “The Backstreet Boys? For real?”
I snatch the note out of his fingers. “That song is iconic. It’s got depth and love and angst and—”
“’Ain't nothin’ but a heartache,” he sings out with a hand over his heart.
“You’re mocking me, and your voice is shit.”
“You’re cute when you get mad.” He takes down another. “Dear Future Boyfriend, Thank you for binge-watching The Office with me and agreeing that Jim Halpert is the second sexiest man alive next to you.” He laughs and looks up at me.
I shrug. “All my secrets are revealed.”
“This is addicting,” he murmurs as he takes another one.
“You don’t have to read them all. There are so many.”
“But I like it. It’s like putting a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle together slowly. You’re a complicated person, Sugar.”
“Ditto.”
“Last one,” he says, looking down at the note. “Dear Future Boyfriend, Thank you for forgetting about the Super Bowl and taking a bubble bath with me instead.” He fingers the paper slowly, rubbing it softly, and his eyes are warm when they meet mine. “We can definitely do this one. I’m not a football fan—”
I stand up to pour another drink. He’s making me nervous. “The Super Bowl already happened.” I indicate the box of donuts on the desk. “If you don’t want a drink, how about a donut?” Food fixes everything.
“I’m not here for a donut.”
He levels his gaze at me.
The tension ratchets up in the room, and I clear my throat and make my way over to the Post-its. I grab one and thrust it toward him. “Read this one.”
“Dear Future Boyfriend, I love that you didn’t freak out when you found my secret wedding board on Pinterest.” A slow grin curls his lips. “Trying to scare me?”
I blink up at him, fluttering my lashes, deepening my Southern accent. “Well, I declare, isn’t that what every girl dreams of, a big wedding outside in a garden with her big, strong, hockey-playing college sweetheart?”
He bites his lower lip. “Keep talking like that and you might be able to talk me into a pretend wedding.”
I place my hand over my heart. “Bless your heart, I have more sayins’ if you wanna hear ’em.”
He rubs his jaw. “Verging on redneck. It’s only good when you talk about how hot I am.”
I roll my eyes at him and grin. I like him so much. He gets my goofiness.
He’s moved closer to the TV. “This is that dragon show everyone talks about…” He kicks off his shoes and plops down on my bed, leaning back against my pillows. “You’re a fan?”
I nod. “Duh. It’s got giant wolves, dragons, zombies, and tons of blood and sex.” I sigh softly. “There’s this one battle called the Battle of the Bastards where Jon Snow retakes Winterfell from Ramsay Bolton, who also killed one of his brothers right in front of him and also cut the balls off…” I stop, not wanting to spoil it for a Game of Thrones virgin. “It’s pretty much perfect.”
“You’re more bloodthirsty than I realized. I like this side of you.” He pats the mattress, wanting me to join him. “You need to educate me.”
I arch a brow. “You wanna watch?”
“You said blood and gore and sex. Toss in a dragon and I’m all yours.”
I laugh and ease in next to him. “The guy with the dark hair, he’s about to—shit, I can’t tell you. If you want to be a Game of Thrones fan, you have to start from the beginning. You have to know everyone’s backstory and why they do what they do.” I give him a look. “You can’t just start in the middle.”
“Ah, sometimes the middle works out.” His lips curve up as he gazes at me, and his eyes are on my chest, lingering before coming up.
I restart the series at season one, episode one.
“Let us begin,” he says softly.
I swallow, feeling the warmth of his bicep as it brushes against me. “Begin what?”
“The show. What else?” There’s an amused glint in his gaze until he gets serious. He toys with a piece of my hair. “Sugar, I’m sorry for being a total jerk. In case you haven’t noticed, I tend to like control. When I don’t have it, I might say something shitty, but I’m the first to admit when I’m wrong and I’ll apologize for it.”