Page 78 of The Roommate Experiment

I stare up at the ceiling, thinking it won’t be a book that’ll keep me up tonight.

36

HUNTER

The morning light creeps through the blinds, rousing me from a restless sleep. I stretch, my body tangled in the sheets, and it takes a moment for my sleep-addled brain to register that I’m still wearing Dylan’s shirt. The worn fabric rustles against my skin like a secret.

I listen to the house, all quiet. I have to pee so, making as little noise as possible, I use the bathroom and then pad into the kitchen. The apartment is empty. Dylan must be asleep. I savor the stillness.

As I fill the coffee pot, my thoughts drift to last night, to the memory of Dylan’s hands on my shoulders, the warmth of his touch lingering long after he’d gone to bed. What did it mean? Was there more to the massage than friendly comfort?

My anxiety spikes at the thought of him waking up, of having to face him in the cold light of day after last night. I pull my hair into a high ponytail, needing something to occupy my hands as my mind spins.

I should make breakfast, even though my baking skills are nowhere near Dylan’s level. Or I could ask him for a cooking lesson, just to have a reason to stay close.

His door opens, then the bathroom’s. The sound of the shower running is next. I listen, trying to guess how long he’ll be, each drop of water ticking in a distant countdown.

As I wait, I consider various poses I could strike for when he walks in. I try leaning casually against the counter, one leg crossed over the other, angled toward the hallway. No, too forced, not sexy at all.

Next, I hop onto the counter, legs slightly spread, hands resting at my sides. Nah, too staged, too obvious. What would I even say if he asked what I was doing perched on the fixtures like a pin-up calendar girl?

I slide off the counter. In a moment of inspiration, I stretch up to reach something on a top shelf, gauging how much the shirt rides up with the motion. Enough to reveal the bottom curve of my ass. I freeze. No, that’s too much.Good morning, this is my ass, is not the message I want to send.

As a last-ditch effort, I lean forward over the kitchen bar as if inspecting something, my body stretched out, elbows resting on the counter. The shirt pulls tight against my figure. I rise on tiptoes, offering a teasing glimpse of bare back thighs. Sexy in theory but awkward in practice, and incredibly uncomfortable to hold for any length of time.

My muscles tremble from the strain, and I give up as the bathroom door creaks open. I straighten up and look around wildly, my heart lodging in my throat.

I pace in a frenzied circle to decide on a position, any position. But after all the rehearsing, I end up standing and pathetically gaping like a landed trout as Dylan emerges from the hall, still wet from his shower, a white towel slung so low on his hips, I’m not sure how he can walk without it slipping right off. Static blocks my hearing. I’ve seen him shirtless before, but this towel of scandal is a million times worse than swim trunks.

I can’t stop staring at the V of muscles disappearing under the towel’s hem, at the fine golden hair trailing downward…

My mind goes blank, any semblance of a coherent thought dissolving into nothing more than a silent scream at the sight of him—damp, nearly naked, and incoming. I forget how to breathe.

“Morning,” Dylan greets, his voice raspy, not fully awake yet.

Instead of returning the greeting like a normal person, I blurt out, “Did you forget your clothes?”

Dylan shrugs, giving a pointed look at the shirt I’m wearing: his jersey. “You stole my favorite shirt. Did you sleep in it?”

Heat rushes to my cheeks, but I manage a nod, my throat so tight I can barely swallow.

I’m scrambling to find a half-decent response when Dylan adds, “Cool.” One word, but the way he says it, all casual and yet heavy with subtext, makes my stomach perform an Olympic-level gymnastics routine.

Then, as if he hasn’t already short-circuited my brain, Dylan opens the fridge, grabs the milk carton, and starts chugging straight from it. I’m pretty sure that’s not allowed. My eyes widen, indignation bubbling up, but it fizzles out in record time as I watch his throat work, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each gulp.

I should protest his lack of basic etiquette, but I’m too busy staring at the hypnotically sensual sight of Dylan drinking as if he were starring in a milk commercial not made for family TV. If the industry wanted to put a sexy spin on “Got Milk?”, Dylan would be their man. I would’ve never guessed dairy consumption could be such a turn-on for me, yet here I am: hot, bothered, enthralled.

My mind takes it even further as it conjures an image of the milk spilling down Dylan’s bare chest, and hello—apparently, I have a new kink. What is happening to me? I blink rapidly, wondering if I’m developing a fetish for the mundane—the mop last night, and now this.

When Dylan finishes drinking, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and puts the milk back in the fridge as if chugging half-and-half straight from the carton was a totally normal morning ritual. Not content, he taps my nose playfully.

“Got thirsty after that shower. I’m gonna go get dressed now.”

“O-okay,” I stammer, my voice reedy.

Dylan saunters off to his room, leaving me standing in the kitchen, my brain still overloaded from all that muscle. I grip the counter’s edge to anchor myself back to reality. This is fine. Totally fine. Two platonic roommates sharing good mornings. Nothing to see here.

After a few, unending minutes, Dylan returns wearing gray sweatpants and that damn sleeveless hoodie again.

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