Page 10 of Trust Me

“I was wondering why you look so disheveled. It’s not quite like your usual state of being,” I remark, crossing my arms under my chest, unintentionally pressing my already-pressed cleavage together even more.

His forest-green eyes don’t leave mine, but his jaw tightens.

“I don’t usually get dressed up when my roommate is home, but if that’s your thing, that’s cool,” he says, shrugging his shoulders casually as he steps back to let me in.

I ignore him and step past him and into the foyer. We silently walk down the short hallway, making a right into the living room.

My jaw wants to drop because the space is beautiful. Tones of navy blue, black, and white are perfectly balanced between the walls, floors, and furniture. Except it’s a little too clean and organized for my liking, everything seeming to be in place. There’s not a single cup on the counter, or a gym bag tossed to the side on the floor.

Elio remains quiet while I peruse his space, watching me as I do.

It surprises me to find his place so clean, yet it doesn’t at the same time. Part of me thinks he’s the type to get off on knowing he’s in control and everything is the way it should be.

Stop making comments about him getting off, I scold myself internally. He’s your roommate and you don’t like him.

It’s what I need to tell myself, condition my brain so that I don’t see him the way I did the day I met him. I mentally shake my thoughts away, bringing myself back to the present.

The living room has a white leather L-shaped couch sitting across a large TV and a black brick stone fireplace. But what piques my interest is the chessboard on the table in the corner, facing the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook this part of town.

My stomach flutters with joy at the sight, having loved playing chess growing up. It’s one of the extracurriculars my parents made me do that I ended up loving and keeping up with.

“You play?” I ask and instantly regret it, because duh? Why else would he have a chessboard that looks like it costs a hefty amount since the pieces and the board are made of glass?

“I told you I wasn’t some dumb jock,” is all he says in response.

I get the sense that there’s more to him, but I can’t quite put my finger on it yet.

My eyes eventually shift to the gigantic kitchen that is nearly as big as the living room, and I hate the sound that leaves my lips at the sight of it. A half squeal, half whimper escapes me before I can stop it, and instead of apologizing for it, I make a beeline for the kitchen.

It’s stunning, not the perfect kitchen setup that I have in my dreams, but it’s close enough. The cabinets are glossy black, with black subway tiles for the backsplash and the countertops are made of white quartz. It has two ovens, two sinks, and one big-ass fridge. The island has another sink and farther down is a set of bar chairs.

I hate to admit he’s right, but I know all of it will look beautiful as the backdrop for my videos, guaranteeing more traffic for my channel.

“How did you do this?” I ask, knowing damn well that as nice as this building is, there is no way the kitchen came like this.

“I like to cook, so it was a deal I worked out with the landlord. He let me hire someone to renovate it in exchange for free season tickets to the Bears games,” he explains, walking into the kitchen and sitting on one of the bar stools.

The Bears are our state’s professional hockey team, the best in the league and the team he used to play for.

I look down on the island where he’s sitting and notice the paper and the two black pens that sit perfectly straight beside it. “Seems like you like to make a lot of deals Elio,” I point out, still marveling at the beauty that is this kitchen.

Inspiration hits me in a wave, a bunch of ideas weaving themselves into my brain. I’m tempted to pull out my notes app to remember them, but then I recall that we have some rules to lay out first.

“Deals are how everything in life is done if you think about it,” he retorts.

I slide into the chair across from him, my feet dangling in the air because I’m not very tall.

There’s a reason why my closest friends call me Minnie.

“Then let’s get to the bottom of ours. I need a start and end date, and rules.” I snap my fingers.

He smirks at that. “Right down to business, I see.” Then he picks up the pen, but before writing anything, he adds, “My advice? You should move in before classes start so that you feel prepared for your classes without the stress of moving after they’ve begun. When you move out is up to you. I personally would prefer if you stayed at least until hockey season is over because that’s when I’ll be the busiest and gone the most.”

“You do know that the season runs from October to April, right? Which is pretty much the entire school year?” I point out.

“That okay with you?” he asks, his pen hovering over the paper.

Living with him for the entire school year sounds like torture, but I guess this is what my mom meant when she lectured me about sacrifices for the greater good.

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