Page 14 of The Roommate Experiment

I nod, bracing myself.

“Okay. One, two?—”

On “two,” she swiftly pulls out the glass and presses the gauze to the wound. I yelp in surprise, more from the unexpected timing than the pain.

Hunter smirks up at me, a naughty glint in her eyes. “Thought you might need the distraction.”

I stare at her, dumbfounded. Has Hunter always been this beautiful? In the dim light of the living room, her olive skin glows, and her dark hair tumbles over her shoulders. I’m suddenly aware of how little she’s wearing: a thin tank top and shorts that expose her sculpted, lean thighs. One of which she’s using as a prop for my injured foot as her fingers deftly wrap the gauze around it, each barely there touch sending currents pulsing through my body.

“There.” She secures the bandage. “The bleeding should stop now that the wound is wrapped.” Hunter gently lowers my foot to the floor and stands up, her movements graceful and fluid.

In an unguarded lapse, I let my eyes roam over her figure, lingering a second too long on her chest. I do my best not to notice how she’s not wearing a bra underneath her top and decide my interest is purely scientific. I’m getting to know my roommate’s habits and preferences, that’s all. When I meet her gaze again, the fiercest blush of the night colors her cheeks, and she self-consciously crosses her arms.

Mentally kicking myself for being a total creep, I avert my eyes. “Thanks for the medical attention.”

She offers me a small smile and backtracks. “I’d better scoop up all that glass before anyone else gets injured.”

I don’t have the strength to get up yet, so I don’t offer to help. I listen as she sweeps the floor and throws the shards into the recycling. Then presumably mops my blood from the floor before she’s back in front of me, pointing her thumb toward her bedroom. “Well, if you don’t need anything else, I should head to bed. I have to wake up early tomorrow for work.”

Her words remind me of how she disappeared this morning, plunging us back into an awkward tension. I can’t let her go without addressing the topic. “I know it’s late, but can we talk for a second?” My voice comes out almost desperate. The question sounds more like a plea.

The seconds stretch, taut and wavering, as I silently pray she won’t brush me off. I need to clear the air, to understand what’s wrong. I brace myself for rejection.

But then, miraculously, Hunter nods. “Okay. Let’s talk.”

7

HUNTER

Night one, I go psycho bitch on Dylan about dirty dishes. Night two, I whack him in the privates with a baseball bat. My instinct would be to flee to my room, hide inside, and never come back out again.

But when he asks me to talk, looking like he does now—golden hair disheveled, white shirt with a few undone buttons, tie hanging loose around his neck—he’s so mouth-watering irresistible, I can’t say no. He might be the one who got hit, and me the basher, but I’m the one left unsteady, as if the rug had been pulled out from under me.

Now that the medical emergency is over, I realize I’m wearing next to nothing. Heat creeps up my neck and face. “Do you mind if I go put on something a little more… covering before we talk?”

Dylan’s gaze flickers down my body before darting away. He clears his throat. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”

I scurry to my bedroom, heart racing. This cohabitation is going to give me premature gray hair. I grab a strapless bra and fasten it over my PJ tank top for damage control—no time for finesse—and cover the fashion crime with an oversized T-shirt. As I return to the living room, I make a silent vow to not let my emotions get in the way of me acting like a normal, half-decent human being and be cool with Dylan.

He’s still on the couch, frozen peas balanced precariously on his lap. He looks up as I approach, a crooked smile playing on his lips. “Better?”

I nod, perching on the edge of the seat cushion as far from him as possible. “I should be the one to ask you that.”

“Peas are working magic.” He scrunches up his face in that cute half-frown that knocks me off my feet every single time. “But aren’t they going to go bad?”

“Even if they don’t, I’m not cooking crotch peas.”

“Hey, crotch-to-table could be a new trend.”

“The food critics would go bananas.”

Dylan chuckles, then winces. “Oof, laughing still hurts a bit.” He shifts the peas, his expression turning more serious.

I tense up, bracing myself for the awkward conversation I’ve been dreading since dish-gate.

“About last night.” He runs a hand through his hair, mussing it. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I didn’t mean to… you know, make a mess of your space or anything. And I know I outdid myself tonight going for full-scale property damage, but hey, at least I’m setting the bar so low, any future disaster will seem mild in comparison.”

My inner groan is so loud I fear he might still hear it. “No, Dylan. I should apologize. I overreacted about the dishes, and then tonight… I basically attacked you. I’m really sorry.”

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