Page 14 of Cool for the Summer

I go upstairs to brush my teeth. When I come back down, Beck’s arms are full of canvas shopping totes.

“You got the list?” I ask.

“Got it. You want to drive?”

I hesitate. “I can, if you want me to.”

Beck looks confused for a moment, then the furrow between his eyebrows disappears. “Oh, you’re one of those New Yorkers who doesn’t drive.”

“I know how to drive,” I say, feeling defensive. “I have a valid license and everything. I’m just a little rusty. It kind of stresses me out.”

Beck laughs. “No worries. I love driving. I just thought you—” He stops before finishing the sentence and I have no idea what he was going to say. Before I can ask, Beck pushes the load of bags into my arms and snags his keys from the little table by the front door. “You can navigate,” Beck says, putting on his sunglasses and activating the alarm system behind us as we leave.

“Nice car,” I say once we’re on the road and I open my maps app. “Had it long?”

Beck smiles. “You don’t know anything about cars, do you?”

“So?”

“This is my baby,” Beck says. “Got her as a graduation present.”

I whistle. “Nice present.” When I graduated from NYU, my parents took me out for a steak dinner and handed me the paperwork for all the student loans I had to start paying back.

I can’t figure Beck out. I might not know anything about cars, but I know this isn’t a cheap commuter car, not with its sleek dash and powerful engine on display as we race down the back roads heading for the market. Beck is college-educated, wears decent clothes, owns expensive sunglasses, drives a sweet car. But he doesn’t have any discernible job and is a self-proclaimed couch surfer. The dissonance bugs me.

Have we established enough of a rapport that I can ask for more details? It’s not as if Beck has been shy about asking me anything that comes into his head. But I’m strangely reluctant to upset our equilibrium.

“Turn up here,” I direct, and soon we’re pulling into the parking lot of a medium-sized grocery store. Some kind of local chain, I guess. Beck grabs a cart and plops the bags in the front basket.

“Want to split up or stick together?” Beck asks.

I blink. I imagine trying to find some of the things on Beck’s list by myself and shake my head. “Let’s stick together.”

Beck grins and pushes the cart through the automatic doors. “Good choice.”

SIX

BECK

Grocery shoppingwith Donovan is surprisingly fun. Everything with Donovan is surprisingly fun.

I’m not sure how well I’m managing the little crush I’ve been developing on my roommate. I’d wanted to do something nice for him, and making breakfast seemed like the obvious choice, but eating elbow to elbow, breathing in his freshly showered scent and trying not to ogle his legs, dark hair covering firm muscles, while bantering over the shopping list, well, it felt intimate. Like boyfriend behavior.

My logical brain knows that whatever intimacy is growing between us is the byproduct of sharing a space and having to get to know each other quickly, not any actual chemistry. But my lizard brain hasn’t gotten the memo, because every time Donovan smiles at me, tiny little fireworks go off in my belly, and today I can’t blame the hangover.

We might be living together, shopping together, taking care of a dog together. But we aren’t boyfriends. And I need to remember that before I do something to embarrass myself.

I always do this—leap into things, relationships, schools, new towns, thinking this time I’ve found the perfect fit, the thing that will stick. And then the guy isn’t The One, it turns out I don’t want to be a teacher/nurse/lawyer, and the seemingly perfect little towns no longer appeal.

Nothing has stuck yet, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop looking for the right place to put down roots once Jack and Pete come back.

I’ve got to remember everything about this particular arrangement is temporary. If I keep my head screwed on, then Donovan and I can just have fun, and I won’t end up hurt and leaving Rosedale licking my wounds.

But it’s hard to stay indifferent when I go a little crazy in the baking aisle and he only lifts one thick black eyebrow and says dryly, “I’m going to have to start working out more, aren’t I?”

I sweep a critical eye down Donovan’s trim but muscular frame. He looks good. It doesn’t help he happens to be just my type. Handsome but flawed, a couple inches taller than my five-eight. All man. I force myself to keep my tone light. “If you want to partake of my baking guilt-free, then you just might. Aren’t there a couple of workout machines in the basement? And there’s the pool, of course.”

I’m fully intending to spend my afternoon poolside. Why the hell shouldn’t I? I’m in hyper avoidance mode. Pools were designed for procrastination.

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