Page 36 of Pitcher

“I do.”

He did. Hopefully, I deleted it tonight.

If you’re disappointed in me, don’t be. Theo has 1,825 contacts. Losing five hundred or so is like spitting in the ocean.

He won’t notice.

Trust me.

With a long and drawn-out kiss, the woman finally leaves. For a moment, Theo stands at the closed door, his head dropped to his chest. He sighs before flipping the lock and running a hand through his hair and turning and heading toward my door.

Quickly, I push his phone under my pillow and pretend I’m asleep.

I hear the door creak.

“I know you’re not asleep,” he says in an amused tone.

I’m not ashamed.

I roll over and see him just inside my door, legs crossed, arms folded over his chest.

“Did what’s-her-name leave already?”

He smirks, pushing off the wall and coming to sit on the edge of my bed.

“Yeah, she did. Somehow your perfume bottle spilled all over my sheets.” His eyebrow arches nearly to his hairline.

I shrug. “Maybe you knocked it over,” I offer.

He shakes his head, his finger going to his lips before he slips it into his mouth and bites his nail. “And your underwear?” he accuses, pulling my purple panties out of his pocket and tossing them with the skill of a pitcher in the hamper.

Again, I don’t cower. “Must have been from when I did the laundry.” I shrug, burrowing down in the covers. “It happens when you have a roommate.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, standing. “Sure it does.” He reaches behind him and grabs the neck of his shirt, leaning over and pulling it over his head. When did he put on a shirt? “Scoot over,” he orders, tossing his shirt in my hamper and unbuttoning his jeans.

“What are you doing?” I ask, panicking on what I am going to do with his damn phone.

Both of his eyebrows arch in an “Are you serious?” way. The denim slides down his muscular thighs with such perfection that if he ever threw out his arm, he could easily have a job at a strip club. Women would pay a fortune to have him pop out of a cake or some shit and shake those narrow hips while killing the Happy Birthday song with his horrible singing.

“Well,” he drawls, pulling a leg out, “since I can’t breathe in my room—” He cuts me an “I know what you did” look. “—I’m sleeping here tonight so it can air out.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m sure it’s not that bad.” I sniff the air. “Okay, maybe it’s a little strong.”

He laughs, shaking his head as if he doesn’t know what to do with me. “I want the right side,” he demands, tipping his chin so I move over.

“I don’t like the left side,” I argue.

“I don’t like blue balls. Move over.”

He’s got a point. I scoot over, taking my pillow—and his phone—with me. Holding open the blankets, he slides in, punches my pillows, and rolls to the side before slipping an arm around me and pulling me to him.

A big, stupid smile adorns my face.

Well, until he says, “Give me my phone so I can set the alarm. I have an early practice tomorrow.”

“It’s inflamed.”

No shit.

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