Page 37 of The Roommate Experiment

“The woman at the next table, the one with the dark hair and the jerk date? She covered your check.”

The floor tilts beneath my feet. Hunter paid for my dinner with Olivia. Of course she did. Because apparently, tonight wasn’t cringe-worthy enough.

I mumble my thanks to Mia and the bartender, then make a beeline for the exit, my face burning. Out on the sidewalk, I suck in the sultry summer air to clear my head.

It’s no big deal. I’ll give Hunter her money back. No harm, no foul. Then why is my gut twisting with an odd tangle of embarrassment and frustration?

I start walking, wondering how slowly I have to go to find her already asleep. I don’t have it in me to talk to Hunter tonight.

One stretch of sidewalk blurs into another, until I’m at my new building, fumbling with my keys and riding up in the elevator.

I unlock the front door, releasing a wave of cool air that tightens the skin on my arms as I step into the stillness on the other side. I kick off my shoes, not bothering to line them up in a neat row like I usually do.

The apartment’s layout has finally settled into my mind as I make my way to my room. All is quiet except for the AC vents. I’m halfway down the hall when I notice a thin strip of light spilling out from under Hunter’s door.

She’s still awake.

I stall, frozen with my hand reaching toward her door. I could knock. Go inside and… what? Thank her for covering the bill? Confess the confusing tangle of feelings I’ve been grappling with all night?

I let my arm drop.

No. I can’t. Not now, when my thoughts are so muddled, when I’m still reeling from the fight with Olivia and from realizing how much Hunter affects me. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us.

Instead, I force myself to keep moving. I pass her bedroom, ignoring the tug in my chest, and slip into my room, closing the door behind me.

In the semi-darkness, I strip off my suit, letting it fall to the floor in an uncharacteristic heap. I’ll deal with everything in the morning, starting with the fallout with Olivia. I was a true jerk to her tonight; even the server noticed. My girlfriend should be my priority.

But for now, I need to sleep. A few hours of oblivion before reality hits and reminds me that everything in my life just got a lot more complicated.

I crawl into bed, the sheets cool against my skin. My last thought before exhaustion claims me is of Hunter’s face, the slight fear in her eyes when that jerk grabbed her, and that pink line around her wrist. My dreams are going to be pretty violent tonight.

* * *

I wake up to the harsh morning light after barely sleeping. My brain is still tangled in the events of last night. I need something to take my mind off it all. Before I know it, I’m in the kitchen, preheating the oven.

With the temperature set, I pull out flour and chocolate chips and grab a mixing bowl. The simple, repetitive motions of measuring and stirring ground me—scoop, roll, place, repeat. The mindless rhythm allows my thoughts to unspool. As the cookies start browning in the oven, the warm scent of chocolate and butter fills the kitchen, and for once, it’s almost as if everything is under control. I let the comforting smell wash over me as I ladle another ball of dough onto the second baking sheet.

The oven timer dings, shrill in the kitchen’s quiet. I slide a new batch of cookies in, the heat blasting against my face as I seal the door. Leaning back against the counter, I close my eyes, letting my head thump backward on the cabinets.

Just breathe, Dylan. It can’t get any worse.

That’s when footsteps jolt me from my spiraling thoughts. I jerk up, and my heart becomes a fist in my throat as I find Hunter standing in the doorway, all sleep-rumpled and cuddly in her pajamas.

Our eyes lock, and last night presses into the space between us, awkward and scraping. I want to break the silence, make a joke—make it alright—but my mouth has forgotten how to form words as I drink her in.

She’s beautiful in the morning light, her dark hair mussed, her eyes still hazy with sleep. Beautiful and achingly forbidden. Then she says, “Hey,” and I’m ready to drop to my knees.

18

HUNTER

The clang of pots and pans jars me awake, the noise cutting sharp against the quiet of early morning as the sweet, buttery scent of freshly baked cookies fills the air. I groan, rolling over in my bed. The embarrassment of last night slams against my sleep-huddled brain the instant I’m conscious. Memories of the restaurant debacle replay in vivid clarity, every mortifying detail sharp as a knife. The urge to hide in my room forever is overpowering, but I can’t spend the entire weekend sequestered with no food, water, or use of the bathroom. My stomach rumbles in response to the mouth-watering aroma. Of course, Dylan is baking cookies. Because the universe is a bastard and truly hates me.

I sigh in resignation. I’ll have to face my roommate eventually, and it might as well be now, especially if baked goods are involved. Shuffling out of bed, I give myself a mini-makeover to look presentable but not like I tried, and trudge down the hallway. As I reach the kitchen threshold, I freeze, stunned by the sight before me.

Dylan is leaning against the counter, head thrown back against a cabinet, eyes closed. He’s pulling off the disheveled, just-rolled-out-of-bed-after-a-night-of-hot-sex look. His golden hair juts out in wild, unruly tufts. A smudge of dough clings to his chiseled chin, and there’s a white fingerprint on his left cheek. The kitchen is just as messy. Flour dusts the counters, and dough sticks to various surfaces. Bowls and spatulas clutter the sink, along with a whisk that’s coated in a gooey mix of butter and sugar. The rich aroma of melted chocolate and vanilla mingles with the warmth of the oven, its fan whirring steadily along the muted sounds of the city outside.

I barely register the clutter as my focus hones back on Dylan.

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