Page 17 of Resisting my Roommate

“Hope you didn’t hurt yourself,” she purrs in a seductive tone.

As if catching a glimpse of her breast wasn’t bad enough, now she has to respond in that kind of voice?

I consider asking if she wants to kiss it and make it better, but nothing good can come of that. One of us needs to keep their head on straight. After the day Abbey had, I can’t expect it to be her.

“You should be able to get out of your dress now.” I step back, trying to calm my racing heart.

And my hardening cock.

“Thanks, Jude.”

I don’t say anything, just watch as she walks back into the guest room.

And this time, she definitely sways her hips more than usual.

CHAPTER EIGHT

ABBEY

My heavy eyelids flutter open, and I’m greeted by warm sunlight streaming through the blinds of a quaint bedroom. It takes me a moment to remember where I am. Not just because of my unfamiliar surroundings, but because of the unusual silence that engulfs me.

There are no horns honking. No sirens blaring. No cable cars rumbling down the street.

Instead, I’m cocooned in a thick blanket of calm and serenity that makes me question if I’m still dreaming.

As I stretch my sore muscles in the soft bed, memories of the hellish day I had yesterday flood back. Surprisingly, I don’t feel as defeated as I did last night.

All because of Jude.

He was the last person I wanted to see during my near breakdown in the park. Hell, he was the last person I expected to go out of his way and help me.

But that’s precisely what he did.

I doubt he realizes how much his kind gesture means to me. He may not think much of it, but it gives me hope that I’ll somehow manage to dig my way out of this hole.

Carefully extricating myself from the warm blankets, I plant my bare feet on the plush area rug beside the bed. The soft fibers tickle my toes as I stand and stretch, my muscles protesting. As I pass the floor-length mirror hanging on the wall by the door, I pause, taking in my appearance. Disheveled strands of dark hair tumble haphazardly around my makeup-free face, Jude’s oversized t-shirt adorning my body, the distressed logo of the Wicked Hop prominent.

I bring the fabric up to my nose and inhale, relishing in the scent. It even smells like him. I shouldn’t like it like I do, considering I woke up yesterday morning wearing one of Carson’s t-shirts. But his never smelled like this. Like grit and man and honesty.

Not wanting to give my ex the satisfaction of thinking about him more than necessary, I open the door and step into the hallway, everything eerily quiet. I assume Jude’s probably still sleeping, but when I glance at the door to his bedroom, it’s wide open.

Curiosity propels me forward, and I move on light feet toward his room. I shouldn’t snoop. Shouldn’t even think about invading his privacy like this.

But I’m intrigued by him. Want to know what makes him tick. Why he seems to have this hard outer shell one minute, then acts like a completely different person the next.

I cross the threshold into his room, sunlight illuminating the space, allowing me a better glimpse of it than last night. It’s well-appointed, much like the rest of the house. Again, it surprises me.

When I first moved in with Carson, his apartment was undoubtedly masculine — leather furniture, dark wood accents, no hint of anything floral.

That’s not the case here.

The walls are painted a soothing light gray with white trim, the navy blue patterned bedspread and floor-to-ceiling curtains the perfect contrast. A framed black-and-white photo of picturesque Lake Tahoe hangs over the bed, other nature-inspired photos adorning the other walls. There’s a subtle touch of femininity in this room that piques my curiosity about Jude even more. Everything about this space gives off the sense that a woman has lived here before, despite there being no trace of one now.

I move farther into the room, careful not to disturb anything.

The king-sized bed sits in the center, unmade on one side only. The other side is perfect, the duvet and sheets pulled tight, the pillow undisturbed. As if he’s accustomed to sleeping only on one side.

A dresser stands against one wall, holding a few scattered items. Just past it, an open closet door reveals a row of shirts and jeans. A stack of books sits on the nightstand by what’s obviously his side of the bed.

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