Page 81 of The Roommate

Clara had plans.

She loved this messy, sun-drenched life she’d stumbled upon. Suddenly words like destiny and fate didn’t sound so silly. Other people did things like this every day. Slept with a beautiful man, knew he didn’t owe her anything.

Josh wasn’t the man of her dreams.

He was something better, something more than she’d ever allowed herself to imagine.

What if L.A. wasn’t a mistake?

She had a cozy home. A good job. A rewarding, if surprising, passion project.

Hell, she was even making progress with Naomi.

Josh Conners and Clara Wheaton didn’t make sense on paper, but what if somehow, impossibly, two wrongs made a right? At least under the covers.

He dusted a kiss across her temple. “I think you might be the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Clara’s heart squeezed like a fist. The moment was too good. Too much. He doesn’t mean it. Not like it sounds.

Shit. She pulled on her clothes and toed on her sneakers. Had anyone ever managed to fall into bed with a pleasure professional without losing their heart?

chapter twenty-eight

JOSH ALWAYS WALKED out of Miss Dee Vine’s Corner Café with a full belly and glitter stuck to the soles of his shoes. About an hour postcoital, a celebrated drag queen greeted him and Clara with smacking kisses to both of their cheeks. Miss Dee led them to a table tucked in the back and winked.

“Order whatever your heart desires,” she said as she handed them menus and a can of crayons, and then, in a conspiratorial whisper, “but we’ve got the best waffles in the Gayborhood.”

Clara ran her palms across the brown wax paper covering the table. Josh tried not to openly stare at her. In the dim fluorescent lights, she looked like everything he’d ever wanted. Every toy that was too expensive at Christmastime. Every sports car he’d ever salivated over. Every ounce of approval he’d never earned.

He sat on his hands to avoid reaching out and caressing her face. The very impulse made him wonder if he’d gone off the deep end. Words left him. Usually having sex with someone made him feel more comfortable around them. He’d successfully used intercourse as an icebreaker in awkward or unfamiliar social situations on more than one occasion.

Somehow tonight he’d walked through a doorway to an alternate reality. Only in another dimension would Clara have let him hold her and kiss her and touch her without a list of reasons on hand to justify the intimacy. His molecules had rearranged to give him this shot at loving her. His seven years must be up.

After a server took their order, Josh focused on making eye contact with the shiny buttons of Clara’s overalls. Oh shit. What if she thought he was staring at her tits? And now, of course, his eyes had strayed to her tits and yep, they were still amazing.

Clara reached across the table and patted his forearm. “Everything okay?”

“What? Me? Sure.” That sounded too casual. He didn’t want her to think tonight didn’t matter to him. That he considered all sex the same. Josh covered her hand with his own. “I mean, I’m good. Really good. I’m happy.” Happy was too generic. Happy was commoditized. He needed a better adjective. One that spoke of transformation. The elation of reaching a summit. Damn, he was in trouble.

/> Clara sat back against her chair and narrowed her eyes. “You’re totally freaking out.”

“No.” He wiped his sweaty palms on his shorts.

“Are you freaking out because you think I’m going to freak out?”

“Now I am.”

“Well, don’t. I promise I’m really happy too.” But he could see something sad in her eyes. Clara rearranged the condiments on the table so that the Heinz bottle stood front and center. “Now, please tell me the ketchup story.”

“No. It’s embarrassing.” Josh dropped his face into his hands.

She straightened the sugar packets so that they all faced the same direction. “That reaction is not making me want to hear it any less.”

“It’s dumb.” But at least it gave him something to think about besides how much he liked the smell of her perfume and how he wanted to spray it across his pillow. Did they have a hotline for this shit?

Dolly Parton crooned through the café’s speakers and half the patrons at the counter twanged along. Clara swayed side to side and twirled her hand at him expectantly.

“Fine,” he said, resigning himself. “Growing up, all my cousins and I used to rag on one another. Just dumb pranks. As the youngest, I was both very devious and very good at talking my way out of trouble.”

---