Page 17 of The Roommate Experiment

He still hasn’t sat down after pouring me the coffee, and the second he saysbig package, I peek at his crotch.And he catches me.

I’m boiling from the inside out.

I avert my gaze quickly, wishing I could pretend it never happened. But he saw me—I have to acknowledge it somehow. “And have yourmanly partsrecovered since the other night?”

Fuckety. Fuck.Tell me I didn’t just say that. Can the sea witch please come and steal my voice?

Dylan smiles awkwardly as he sits down. “No long-term injuries to report. Those peas did not sacrifice in vain.”

I stare firmly at my plate, focusing on cutting my pancakes into neat squares. “Glad to hear.”

He drops his elbows onto the table, crossing his arms. The movement makes his T-shirt stretch across his biceps, fueling my inner turmoil.

“What about you?” He thankfully reverts to our previous topic. “Any plans for today?”

I wish I could tell him I’m doing something extremely cool like joining a sustainable urban gardening class in Brooklyn.

But the question is salt in the wound of my non-existent social life now that my roommates have moved out. I shrug, vaguely gesturing with my fork. “Not really. I’m going to catch up on some reading, do a bit of cleaning. Finish some work stuff.”

It’s a lame answer, I know, but it’s the best I can come up with when my brain is short-circuiting from proximity to a man who redefines the expression “out of my league.”

Still, as we continue to chat and eat, the knot of tension in my chest loosens. Sharing breakfast with him feels natural, effortless almost, when I’m not blabbering nonsense.

For a heartbeat, I can pretend everything’s fine. It’s a dangerous illusion, I know. But for now, I let myself sink into it, savoring the warmth of his laughter and the sparkle in his blue-green eyes, as if this were just another typical weekend morning. As if my heart weren’t fluttering at every smile, glance, or accidental touch. And that’s my mistake.

9

HUNTER

After a day wasted doing chores and little else, I decide to at least treat myself to dinner. I’m about to leave the house to go to my favorite Mexican place around the block—sadly, they don’t deliver—when I bump into Dylan, looking pleasantly disheveled as he carries a stack of cardboard boxes down the hall. His T-shirt stretches across his sculpted chest as he balances the load in his arms.

“Hey, Hunt,” he greets me with an easy grin. “Where’s the recycling? These empty cartons are taking over my room.”

I take the boxes from him, offering a small smile in return. “I can bring them downstairs. I’m headed out, anyway. We’ll do a full tour another day.”

“Oh, thanks, you’re the best.” His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, and I have to look away before I say something stupid like,How’s your ding-dong?Once a day is enough.

“No problem. I’m going to grab tacos from my favorite Mexican place. You want in?”

A grin spreads across Dylan’s face, his eyes shining. “That would be amazing. I’ll get a…”

I mentally recite his order to the last detail.Pollo asado with corn tortillas. One quesadilla. Nachos with guacamole and pico de gallo, no cheese.

Dylan echoes my thoughts and I nod along, hoping he doesn’t notice I’m not writing any of it down. Or that if he does, he’ll chuck it down to me having an exceptional memory. With a quick wave, I escape out the door, wondering if our second dinner together will go better than the lasagna letdown. How could it be worse? Haha… wait for it.

A short walk later, I step into the taco place, greeted by thick, warm air heavy with the comforting scent of spices and sizzling meat.

I relate my order to the guy at the counter, then throw in an extra burrito and nachos for good measure. Because carbs are the only certainty in my life right now.

When I come back to my place, I shuffle the takeout bags weighing down my arms to free a hand, about to put the key in the lock, when I hear a feminine giggle coming from the other side of the door. My stomach drops. That could only beher. Cruella D’Olive. Dylan’s girlfriend.

There’s no other possibility. Nina doesn’t laugh that way. Rowena is in the Hamptons. And my building is not one where neighbors visit at random.

Panic rises in my throat. I don’t know what to do. Should I flee? But I’m wearing a crappy T-shirt and baggy shorts, and I only took my phone to the Mexican place. Plus, Dylan knows I’m supposed to come back. He’d worry if I disappear—or worse, ask questions.

Pursing my lips, I brace myself and enter the house. My eyes snag on the other woman occupying my space at once.

Olivia.

---