Page 73 of Roommate
“Good point,” I concede. “And you’ll be seven years older than the other freshmen. So you’re right on schedule.”
Kieran laughs, turning his head to the side in that way that he does. As if laughing were a private matter. And it’s just as well, because a full-on smile from him is hotter than the sun.
“Okay. I’ll think about it,” he mumbles. Then he reaches out and takes my hand. And when his fingers close over mine, I feel like I won a prize. “What are you doing today, anyway?”
“Taking a run. Testing out a recipe for shortbread cookies.” His eyes brighten at the mention of cookies. “Trying to decide how many holiday cookies I can bake in the next ten days. I thought we could let people buy in bulk, and pull in some extra cash.”
He tilts his head. “If you’re not careful, you’ll end up making cookies all night, every night.”
“That wouldn’t be so bad.” I shrug. The truth is that I’d rather be indispensable than well-rested.
Everything in my life is going so well right now. My job is working out, and my new man is the nicest guy in the world.
I’m basically just waiting for the other shoe to drop. It always does.
Kieran
Pratt and Son Advertising Agency is slammed because Christmas is a’coming, and everyone wants to glam up their promo imagery with bows and glitter.
Honestly, it’s boring design work. I can’t wait until the holidays are over.
“Kieran,” Mr. Pratt barks. “Can you redo this Christmas tree? The client doesn’t like all the ornaments. They’re too busy.”
Ornaments? I take the page out of his hand, and what I see there makes me feel ragey. Once again, Deacon has taken my nice, crisp design and mucked it up. “There shouldn’t be any ornaments at all. Ask Deacon to delete that layer on the source file.”
“He’s gone for the day,” Mr. Pratt says. “Could you handle it for me? Thanks.”
I look down at the pile of other requests on my desk and nearly snap. But I’m distracted from my misery when my phone lights up with a message.
Roderick: Hey! I think you forgot to defrost that chicken I was supposed to cook. It’s still in the freezer? We could get takeout instead!
That’s all it takes to make me forget all my work troubles. Because Roderick is home and thinking about cooking our supper, and part of me is already there with him.
I don’t even recognize my life right now. It’s full of hot meals and couch cuddles and blowjobs. We eat together every night now. After dinner, we watch TV on the couch, until Roderick leans in to trace my ear with his tongue, or lifts my T-shirt up to kiss his way across my abs. And then—after we exhaust ourselves—we curl up together in my bed and pass out. He sleeps spreadeagled on the bed, limbs everywhere.
Every morning, when his alarm goes off at some unholy baker’s hour, he rolls over and hugs me before getting out of bed. His sleepy hand trails though my hair, and I feel his warm chest against my ribcage as his knee hooks over mine. Clumsy with sleep, I reach over and give him a quick squeeze. He kisses me on the jaw and leaves, but I can still smell his skin on the sheets after he goes.
Having Roderick in my life is like having a fire in the hearth. He warms me even when I can’t see him.
A couple years ago I watched my cousin Griffin fall head over heels for Audrey. The two of them were so right for each other that I wasn’t even envious. But I thought—that will never happen to me. Now I wonder if I was wrong.
Too bad I’m too distracted by my man to defrost a chicken.
Kieran: I did forget. I’m sorry. I’ll buy takeout if you want to order something. Looks like I’ll be here for a while. The Christmas rush is on. And Junior fucked off early.
Roderick: If I ever meet that guy, I’m going to spit on his bagel.
Kieran: Gross. Remind me to stay on your good side.
Roderick: He gets paid more than you, and does half the work.
Half is generous. But I probably shouldn’t complain. A job is a job.
Roderick: I have a radical idea. Let’s go out to dinner. It doesn’t have to be anywhere fancy. But wouldn’t it be fun to let other people bring us food? I think we’re due a small extravagance. Like that noodle shop in Montpelier.
I smile at the screen, because Roderick texts like he talks—in idea bursts. And he’s still going.
Please?
