Page 76 of The Roommate Experiment

All week, I’ve been parading around the apartment in increasingly skimpy outfits—shorty-shorts, off-the-shoulder tops, messy buns. And… nada. No reaction from Dylan beyond his usual friendly smiles. It’s like trying to seduce a golden retriever. A hot, oblivious golden retriever.

Tugging on the shorts, I figure if these don’t get a rise out of him, nothing will. I twist my damp hair up into his favorite messy bun, then stop. With my neck already twinging in protest, I let my hair fall loose instead, the wet strands cool against my bare shoulders.

For my top, I bypass my remaining off-the-shoulder options and go straight for the nuclear option—the oversized Blue Devils shirt Dylan lent me when I got soaked by the sprinklers at his parents’ house. Turns out I didn’t even have to steal one of his basketball jerseys; he’s already given it to me.

Slipping the worn cotton over my head, I catch a faint whiff of Dylan’s scent still clinging to the fabric. Clean and crisp with a hint of something manly. The smell wraps around me like an embrace, and my eyes flutter closed. Gosh, the atomic plan has already backfired and is short-circuiting my brain instead of his. I let the shirt go and push it as far from my nose as possible.

I check myself in the mirror before going back out. The hem of the shirt skims my thighs, covering my shorts—kind of counterproductive. I knot the excess at my waist, letting a slice of skin peek out. It’s a bold move. I’m literally puttingallmy skin in the game.

Time to see if Dylan is ready to play ball.

When I head back into the living space, Dylan is unloading the takeout boxes onto the kitchen counter. The scent of cilantro, lime, and spices wraps around me, but his presence makes the air thicker than all the spices. The baseball cap has come off, but now his hair is all messy and tousled, sticking up in a way that suggests he’s run his hands through it too many times and that makes Dylan even more devastatingly sexy.

He lifts his head and takes me in, giving me the slowest of once-overs. There is a new boldness in the way he looks at me, being deliberate and unapologetic about it in a way that makes my skin slow-fry under that heated stare.

Dylan cocks his head. “Is that my shirt?”

I nod, playing it cool. “I told you it was comfy and that I might not give it back.”

He holds my gaze a little longer than is comfortable, then says, “Nice shorts.”

His voice is casual, but heat simmers each word, making my knees turn to jelly. I glance down at my exposed legs, suddenly aware of how much skin is on display. When I look back up, Dylan’s eyes are still on me, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.That’s new.

We bring the tacos to the couch, and Dylan takes control of the remote. I expect him to put on something boring like the news or sports, but after zapping through the channels for a while, he logs onto a subscription service andLegally Blondebegins to play.

A little dazed, I ask, “You like this movie?”

Dylan shrugs. “Nina’s made me watch it so many times, it’s grown on me.”

I stuff my mouth with taco because otherwise, I might say something stupid like,Will you please marry me?or,Can I bear all your children? The taco is delicious—crispy, savory, everything I love—but the taste is a blur in the background compared to the presence of Dylan next to me.

As the opening credits roll, I sneak a glance at him from the corner of my eye. He’s slouched back against the cushions, long legs stretched out in front of him, looking utterly relaxed. Acting like this is a normal Friday night for us, hanging out and watching rom-coms together.

But it’s not normal, not even close. Because I’m sitting here in his clothes, the ghost of his scent surrounding me, hyper-aware of every single inch between us.

I shove another bite of taco into my mouth, forcing myself to focus on the screen. But with Dylan’s solid warmth radiating beside me and the memory of how he looked at me earlier seared into my brain, concentrating on a movie is impossible.

But the story eventually wins me over and I get absorbed into the shenanigans of Elle Woods and her law-school drama. Unfortunately, the respite is short-lived because as we finish eating, Dylan clears the plates, and when he comes back, I’m on high alert.

He looks at me sideways. “You look tense, Hunt.”

I shrivel under the scrutiny. When he concentrates all his focus on me like that, my walls become invisible and I wonder if he can see straight into the part of me that’s been quietly churning all evening. I force a smile, saying, “Work has been intense. Just a little neck pain.”

I stretch my head from side to side as if to demonstrate how easily the problem can be solved.

“Neck pain? We can’t have that.” His voice is low and smooth and sends a ripple of tension straight through me. “Do you want me to work out those knots for you?”

I stammer, “A-are you sure you know w-what you’re doing? You could make it worse.”

He grins at me, all confidence. “I’m a pro masseuse. Our sports massage therapist back in college taught me all the tricks.” He wiggles his fingers at me.

The thought of Dylan touching me has my pulse skyrocketing, and I bite my lip, unsure if I’ll survive a massage from him. “Okay, then.”

I turn sideways, expecting us to sit side by side for the massage, but Dylan climbs onto the couch and slides behind me, placing me firmly between his powerful thighs.

His legs are warm and solid, pressing against me on both sides, and the sudden proximity sends a jolt of awareness through my entire body. My hair is still loose after the shower, for drying, but now Dylan brushes it aside, collecting it up. His fingers sliding through my hair send goosebumps racing across my skin as sensation explodes over my upper body.

“Do you have a hair tie?” His breath tickles the side of my neck.

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