Page 11 of Messy Strokes (Wrecked Roommates)

“It’s not difficult––”

“Don’t talk to me about difficult,” I mutter, pressing my forehead to the passenger window.

I can almost hear him gritting his teeth before a low sigh escapes him. “Fine. What’ve you been calling her?”

Fiddling with the hem of my shirt, I glance his way. If it were anyone else, they wouldn’t bat an eye at a simple nickname like Peanut. But Milo? He knows me better.

“I, uh, I call her Peanut.”

His gaze darts over to me, and his jaw tightens, but he doesn’t comment. He simply pushes the gas pedal a little harder and grips the steering wheel until his knuckles are white.

* * *

“A peanut butter sandwich?”I ask. “Seriously?”

“What the hell’s wrong with a peanut butter sandwich?” Milo returns, slathering a few tablespoons onto a slice of white bread.

I smile and sway closer to him, wrapping my arms around his bare torso. Gibson had to work tonight. He mentioned it the last time we were all together, and it’s precisely the reason I asked Milo if he wanted to hook up this evening. I like Gibson. He’s respectful. Sweet. And he understands the lines we’ve drawn to keep any of us from getting attached or hurt. But he’s not the one for me. And it’s getting harder and harder to let him touch me when the only person I want is the emotionally unavailable tattoo artist in front of me.

“Nothing’s wrong with it,” I add. “I’m just curious why it’s always your go-to after sex.”

“Maybe I need the protein.”

I snort and run my hands along his six-pack, toying with the hem of his gray joggers hanging low on his hips. “Trust me. You get plenty of protein.”

“Mm-hmm,” he grunts, slapping the second piece of bread on top of the first, and turns around in my arms to offer me a bite.

With a smile, I take one.

“Mmm,” I hum, licking my lips. “Yummy.”

“It was my favorite food as a kid.” He takes a bite of his own, his rugged jaw clenching as he chews.

“Oh, really?”

“My parents didn’t give a shit about Reese and me, but whenever they’d have any money in their wallets, I’d steal a few bucks for a loaf of white bread and a jar of peanut butter to hold us over.”

“And what happened when their wallets were empty?” I ask.

He shrugs one shoulder and takes another bite.

“Tell me,” I prod.

“I’d go dumpster diving.”

The answer makes me pause, my heart swelling for the little boy who wound up with way too much responsibility on his shoulders all because his parents were shitty. Don’t get me wrong. Mine were too, but it was different. I never had to worry about whether or not food would be on the table. If anything, they cared too much, were too present. Too hands-on. Too controlling. I felt like I was being smothered. Like I was never good enough for either of them, and they loved pointing out how I fell short anytime we were in the same room together.

I shove aside the memory and rise onto my tiptoes, licking a small smudge of peanut butter from the corner of his mouth. His gaze heats.

“So, it’s your happy food?” I ask.

“It helps me remember there can be a bright side even during shitty circumstances.”

“Which is why you crave it after sex?” I laugh, quirking my brow.

The dimples in his cheeks deepen. “Maybe I like pairing it with other things that make me happy.”

My chest tightens as I bask in his warm gaze.

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