Page 91 of A Bossy Roommate
How dare he?
Inked sleeves.Heavens.
There’s something about a well-groomed man being half-dressed, showing off his tattoos that makes me clench my thighs together. Especiallythiswell-groomed man.
“I ordered dinner before I left, so it should be here soon,” he rumbles, not looking up from his pile of mail.
“Awesome,” I chirp, trying to act like my libido hadn’t shot through the roof the second I came in. “I got cookies. They’re in the kitchen. Did you see your aunt?”
“Yeah, I stopped by there a minute ago. Had to scold Hattie for making sangria, but lord knows they won’t listen to a damn thing I say.” He puts the mail down and removes his gray tie all the way, wrapping it around his hand in the process.
My mouth drops open a little. If only my hair could have such fun…
When he finally looks up at me, he stills. Next, he playfully raises his eyebrow. “You see something you like?”
Busted.
Shit. Am I drooling?
“Not really,” I lie, moving across the room toward him. “Not sure what you mean.” I’m a lying liar who lies, and he knows it. My whole body screams, “Take me!”
Carter’s gaze still on me, he picks up his jacket and makes his way around the table. “That’s not what I heard.”
“What do you mean?” Damn. Did I say something out loud? Surely not.
“I mean, two ladies just told me that my wife had plans for a date night tonight. I wasn’t aware we had a date night.”
At that, I laugh and shake my head.Thanks, ladies!“Oh, my God, those two are going to be the death of me.Hattiewas the one who said the words ‘date night.’ All I did was try to politely bow out of a conversation.”
“I warned you.”
“Yes, yes, you did.”
“So, no date night then?”
My heart skips a beat. “You were the one who talked about wine and dinner. I should be asking you the same thing.”
“After that phone call, it looked like you needed it.”
Instant mood killer. I’ve been doing my best tonotthink about the call, and it had worked very well up until he mentioned it. I make a face and sit on the nearest chair. “Ugh, don’t remind me.”
For two seconds, Carter puts his hand on my shoulder—my heart stutters for those two seconds—as he walks by on his way to our room. His room. Not our room.
“We’ll open some wine,” I hear him rumble, “and you can tell me all about it. Let me take a quick shower first.”
“I don’t think you have enough wine to cover the whole story.”
“We’ll make do.”
While he goes to shower, all naked and tattooed and hot, I busy myself in the kitchen. I need to find something to focus on, something other than the pounding of my heart and the casual comfort Carter is willing to provide. Add to the fact my brain decides to think about all our special encounters, including how close he sat next to me at lunch, how his arm was around my shoulders, and I know if he comes into the kitchen and touches me in any way, I’m going to jump his bones.
Ding-dong. Ding-dong.
Luckily, dinner arrives, distracting me.
“I’ve got it.” Carter comes to answer the door, dressed in black jeans and a black long-sleeved shirt. The shirt is tight enough that I can see his muscles just barely straining through the fabric. I force myself to look away, because if he catches me staring—again—I’ll never live it down.
Instead, I unpack the food and finish setting the table, while he goes to pick out wine. He’s ordered pasta with marinara sauce this time. The delicious smell of tomato sauce elevated by sautéed mushrooms and assorted vegetables fills the room. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I fill our plates, and whenhe returns with a bottle of white wine a minute later, I’m already picking up my fork.