Page 11 of Roommate's Guide to Love

Three Banks sisters have my spidey senses tingling that the fourth might be behind. Though that’s doubtful. She was just home last month, and I’m pretty sure her school year doesn’t end for another month. It was rare we got a non-holiday or vacation visit from Quinn then; I doubt it would happen two months in a row.

Much to my cock’s dismay.

So, as much as I’d like to stare at the door and say a prayer to the God of Hookups, I can’t, as customers start shouting their orders at me. Begrudgingly I serve them, but unfortunately I now have nothing but thoughts of Quinn Banks rolling through my brain.

Fuck, what I’d give to get lost in her curves tonight. Yes, I just saw her last month. I don’t think in our eight years we’ve ever seen each other two months in a row. But it has been three times in the past five months, which is probably why I keep looking to see if my favorite brunette is going to walk in.

Which is ridiculous. I don’t stare at doors. I don’t wish for women to come see me. Hell, I barely initiate small talk when it comes to the opposite gender. I’ve seen the worst in people and relationships. I watch grown folks cheat on each other every day in this bar. I watched my mom pack her suitcases and leave. I know Pops was strong and put on a brave face after she decided that small-town Tennessee life wasn’t for her, but there were nights I heard his tears. I know he wasn’t the same man after she left. And like hell I’m ever going to risk my wellbeing for the chance that maybe I’ll be on the slim chance of a happily ever after.

It’s why Quinn and I are perfect together. I only see her when she comes home from Arizona. We have incredible, string-free sex. She flies back home. I go back to my life. We don’t text in between. We don’t call and pretend to catch up. It’s all physical. No more, no less.

The round of applause from the patrons to the entertainment for the night breaks my thoughts as I turn my back to grab a bottle of tequila. But the thoughts don’t stay away for long as the tequila makes me now think of the one night where I licked this same brand off of Quinn’s luscious body.

That was a good night…

“Jesus Christ, Porter! What’s a girl gotta do around here to get a drink?”

The voice stops me on a dime. There’s no other woman that could scream at me like that, and yet I find it so fucking sexy.

I don’t turn around. I don’t react, except for the smile that no one can see.

Because Quinn Banks is home.

guide to love rule #17

Sometimes you need a girl’s night to make

you forget your problems.

Sometimes you need a dick appointment.

Both have their benefits.

4

quinn

I didn’t really wantto come to The Joint tonight. First, no one knows I quit my job, and being around liquor isn’t the best idea when I’m trying not to blab.

Second, I didn’t shave my legs.

The first is the most important, because I’m currently fibbing to my sisters about why I took an impromptu trip home on short notice. So far, they’re buying the bit about a long weekend and expiring airline miles. But because they think nothing is wrong, I couldn’t put up a fight about coming to The Joint since none of them had plans.

So now I have to figure out how to not blurt out that I quit my job, but also make sure I don’t accidentally go home with Porter tonight. Because while a hookup might soothe the ache of my life being in shambles, I doubt I’d wake up tomorrow morning feeling any better.

Sated? Yes. Sore? Depends on how adventurous we’re feeling. Still depressed? Very much so.

All of this is going to be easier said than done. I’m one slip of the lips from my sisters calling me on my flimsy story. And those jeans Porter is wearing should be illegal. No man’s ass should look that good in a pair of Wranglers.

God, I really am weak…

And I’m just going to keep staring at it until he acknowledges me. I know he heard me. He might not have turned around or made any sort of noticeable movement, but when you sleep with a man for eight years, you know how to read his body.

When he slowly turns toward me, the cocky smile says it all. To any other woman in this bar, they’d think it’s the classic Porter flirty bartender smile. And to the untrained eye, it looks just like that.

There’s just one exception: the smile he gives me pops a dimple that sends shivers down my spine every time I see him.

Fuck my life! Why didn’t I shave my legs before the plane this morning…

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