Page 26 of My Brother's Roommate (Frisky Business 2)
Why would he bring that up? Did Penelope tell him something I should know about?
In a moment of God-level timing, Caleb bursts into the back office, looking like he just ran a half marathon. “Dude, we need you out there,” he barks at Connor. “Put your sissy water down and let’s go.”
“It’s not sissy water,” Connor grumbles, chugging what’s left of his lemon-flavored beverage before tossing it like a three-pointer into the recycling bin. “Catch you later, man.”
Relief hits me like a tidal wave, but I don’t let any of it show. Instead, I give him a halfhearted wave, dodging his gaze as usual. “Later.”
With the office to myself again, I should be dialing back into these spreadsheets. Instead, I find myself reaching for my phone and pulling up Penelope’s number.
Just one text. That’s all. Just to congratulate her on this next step toward the promotion.
Nothing flirty or suggestive. No signs that I haven’t been able to shake the memory of her pouty pink lips sliding up and down my cock, or the way she moaned my name when I had her all wet and worked up.
Shit. I need to reel myself in. Is this how normal people feel about sex? Because this shit is fucking crazy.
I keep my text short and to the point, tossing in a jab at her asshole coworker for good measure.
Connor told me it’s down to you and that shithead Spencer for the promotion. Congrats. I know you’re gonna get it.
As soon as I hit SEND, I shove my phone back into my pocket. It’s not like she’ll text me right back, anyway. She’s working. Which is what I should be doing too. But I barely have time to locate last quarter’s expense reports before my pocket buzzes again. It’s her.
Thanks. :) Come over for dinner tonight? I never properly thanked you for enduring that work retreat with me. I owe you a decent meal, at the very least.
I stare blankly at my screen, restraining myself from suggesting that, if anything, I owe her a thank-you for what she did for me on Friday night. No need to turn this conversation sexual in the middle of a workday.
It’s just dinner, Cox. Not an invite into her bed.
Before I can formulate a response, my phone lights up with a second text from her.
Unless you had other plans?
As if anything I had on the calendar for the evening could be more interesting than seeing her. My fingers fly across my keyboard, typing out my reply.
I’m free. See you tonight.
She sends back a smiley-face emoji, a reminder of her address, and a suggestion that I head over around seven.
I spend the second half of the workday fidgeting at my desk, unable to focus on anything for longer than a few minutes at a time. I’m too preoccupied with tonight and overanalyzing what it means that Penelope invited me over.
Does she want to pick up where we left off before her brother interrupted us on Saturday morning? Or is this really nothing more than a thank-you for my fake-boyfriend services?
By the time five o’clock rolls around, the crowd of shoppers has died down to a manageable size, so I don’t feel like a huge jackass for not sticking around to help. Still, I opt to exit through the back door rather than out front. I don’t need any of my friends holding me up with questions about my plans for the night. Time to rush home, take my second shower of the day, and get ready for the evening.
It’s just dinner. Nothing else.
But I slip a condom into my wallet, just in case.10* * *PENELOPEIn the past week and a half, I’ve learned a lot about Wolfie Cox.
I’ve learned how steady and comforting his heartbeat feels against my cheek when I’m lying on his chest, and the way it speeds up when my fingers lace with his. I’ve learned how he tastes first thing in the morning, his lips pressing sleepily to mine. I’ve learned what makes him anxious and what turns him on, sparking that dangerous flicker in his stormy eyes. He’s let me see a deeper, softer side of him that very few have seen before. A side that I’m drawn to like a moth to a flame.
But none of this intimate knowledge of him is doing me any good right now. As I stare blankly into my pantry, I’m realizing the downside of skipping straight to the heavy stuff. I haven’t managed to learn a single thing this man likes to eat.
I close the pantry door with a frustrated groan. Why haven’t I asked any of the easy questions?
For example, what’s your favorite color? What’s your favorite movie? If you pretended to be a girl’s boyfriend for a weekend to impress her boss, what would you want her to cook you as a thank-you? You know, the usual stuff.
