Page 15 of Run, Run, Roommates
I am so tempted.
“I was going to . . . well, I could use the money, but this is for charity.”
Guilt flickers in my gut. Brin might pay less rent than I do, but it’s still more than she paid before she met me. If she needs the money, she needs the money, and I can’t jeopardize that. “No, no, it’ll be fine. We have plenty of time to get activities done this week.”
Brin nods and retreats back to our room to finish getting ready. I can tell she feels bad.
I shake my attraction off. My desire for her company is ridiculous. We spend so much time together, and I would never ask her to skip work and risk her job. She needs stability in her life, she needs to feel safe.
I would be a real asshole if I risked that.
8
Brin
When I shuffle out into the living room the next morning, Marco is wrapping presents again. A giant pile of presents.
“What . . . ?”
Marco glances up. “There was an announcement that we could come pick up more presents to wrap. I ran and grabbed them.”
“’Ow many points?” I mumble.
“Six.” He doesn’t look up from his work.
My eyebrows raise. That’s the most points we’ve seen for any one task, except for cutting down your own Christmas tree. We didn’t even have to talk about nixing that one, though. Cutting down our own tree would be fun, but given how Marco’s brother died, there’s no way I want to subject Marco to that.
I have questions, but I’m not awake enough to think just yet, so I stumble into the kitchen. There’s a cup of coffee waiting for me. Marco lets me perch on the un-present-piled side of the couch and wake up slowly.
There are scraps of wrapping paper and empty tubes all over the place. We’re not being tidy, though it’s hard to be too focused on cleaning when we’re just going to make a mess again.
Marco wraps a YA book, folding precise, neat edges, and then holding the paper down while he carefully rips a few inches of tape off the roll. He’s wearing gray sweatpants again this morning—he has several pairs—with a Heartstopper tee. The edges of his hair are damp, curling, like he showered this morning.
I sit cross-legged and sip my coffee. Marco and I have the full day to rack up as many points as we can until I go into work.
I check my phone. It’s already ten a.m., and there are a few unread announcements in the Discord server. We missed a burst challenge while I was sleeping—sledding.
I put the phone down. “How did you get all the presents here?”
“An UberXL.”
“I would have helped.”
“I know.” He flashes me a quick smile. Then he stops wrapping a small stuffie and holds out his thumb. “Gave myself a paper cut.”
There’s a bright, angry red strip on the pad of his thumb. I lean forward, setting my coffee on the floor, and crawl toward him. It looks irritated but it’s not bleeding. I grab his hand and pull it closer for inspection.
Then, just to be cute, I kiss the cut. “You’ll live.”
I expect him to laugh, but when I glance up, his Adam’s apple is bobbing, his gaze darting between my lips, his thumb, and below my face.
Before I left our bedroom I threw on an old sweatshirt, a stretched-out, super soft Lookouts one, my dad’s favorite minor league baseball team.
I did not put on a bra.
Mortified that Marco can see down my top, I panic and my arm gives out from underneath me. Marco’s grip on my hand tightens and jerks up, like he’s trying to save me, but this ship is going down.
I face-plant into the carpet.
