Page 11 of The Ground Beneath Our Feet
I’d fled, mortified, my face red, blaming myself for getting it wrong, when I hadn’t done anything wrong at all.
As usual.
I called Monica as I drove around in circles. “I walked in on my new roommate having sex.”
“What? You can’t be serious!”
“I am. It’s completely humiliating.”
“Why is that humiliating?” After I told her what happened, she said, “I dunno. He sounds kind of hot.”
“I have tolivewith him. How am I ever going to face him?”
“You just do it.”
I drove to my new office, circled the parking lot, then left to find Target.
The easy part about going to Target was picking out a little organizer thing for the bathroom. The more difficult part was the food section. I picked up berries and baby carrots and low fat cottage cheese. I also picked up Chips Ahoy cookies, Sour Patch Kids, chocolate pudding cups—a dozen—and Doritos.
After I almost made it to the check out, I walked back and put all the junk food back.
Then I turned around and got it all in a rush, trying to hide it at the bottom of my cart.
I was crazy. I was absolutely crazy.
But on the bright side, I’d taken so long that I hoped that whoever that was—my new roommate’s girlfriend or wife—was dressed.
I wanted him dressed too, although he lookedreallygood naked.
When I pulled back up to the Victorian, the front door stood wide open. I hadn’t left it that way. I’d locked it. I got out and walked to it, carrying my Target bags of healthy groceries, the bad stuff hidden in the back. A man appeared, standing in the doorway, wearing a black tank top and loose cargo pants, barefoot.
Easily, he was the hottest man I’d ever seen. With or without clothes on.
Actually, he wasn’t really a man, but more of a mountain. Or at least a small hill. Now that I could see him better, he was brawny, with bulging shoulders and a narrow waist. His bicep boasted a larger circumference than a lot of people’s thighs. Tribal looking tattoos circled both arms in thick bands.
This man worked out and probably only ate raw chicken and protein powder mixed with the tears of his enemies in a high-end blender.
Besides the overlarge amount of muscles, he had thick, spiky, dark hair, which was wet from a shower, tanned skin, and chocolate brown eyes. His high cheekbones cut in on his face like ice skates, and his jaw followed suit, angular and symmetrical. But he had some baby fat on his cheeks, making him look younger than he was.
And he had dimples.
I was a sucker for dimples.
He stood in the doorway with grace that belied his size, seeming like he could float away, like he wasn’t really there.
And as I approached, tentative and wary, he doubled-over, laughing so hard that tears ran down his face, toned belly shaking, feet solidly on the ground. His lively eyes watched me carefully, even as he laughed hard. I walked up slowly, taking my time, and taking in his striking good looks.
So, about me. I’m the kind of girl people say, “Oh, she has such a pretty face.” Around this man who took obviously immaculate care of his body, I felt especially self-conscious, because I was just too big.
“So you’re my new roommate, huh?” he sputtered out. His deep voice, confident, was instantly comforting.
I nodded, suddenly shy and embarrassed. “I’m Jessica.”
“I know. Mikey,” he offered, holding out his hand, and taking my bags from me with his other. His meaty paw engulfed mine, so large and muscular.
I must say, I liked his hand, and I liked how he made me feel small.
Then realizing that I had waited longer than was socially acceptable to speak, I blurted, “So, uh, did I go to the wrong room earlier?”
