Page 51 of Counting On You

Chapter Eleven

Kade

Vicky.

Such an ordinary name for a woman who looks anything but ordinary. The day’s been hot and dry, perfect for a date. For the first time in my life, I actually put some thought into the way I dress for a woman and give myself the obligatory once-over in the mirror.

My eyes are bloodshot from the lack of sleep and the drinks I had last night. My hair is still wet from the shower, the dark curls falling deep into my face.

I’ve been told on more than one occasion that I look like a celebrity. I have even had random people on the street approach me for an autograph, mistaking me for a famous actor whose name I couldn’t be bothered to remember. Honestly, I don’t see the resemblance to any celebrity, but if people claim so, then who knows? Maybe we’re related. I wouldn’t be surprised, considering that I’ve never known my birth parents.

Absentmindedly, I brush my fingers through my hair, wondering whether to cut it. Women dig the two or three extra inches in all instances. They like my dark brown eyes and haunted look. They say they love my cocky smile, but underneath it, I can be serious as fuck.

Planning. Scheming. That’s what I’m good at.

Getting Vicky into my bed is my newest goal.

The plan is to do it in an old-fashioned way—have dinner, get her invested in me.

The more I think about it, the more I want her to be the last one in my 365-day, non-stop sex calendar. Cash was right to demand that I sleep with her. Get her out of my system.

She knows that fucking your roommate is not allowed, so that might make the task at hand harder, but not impossible.

The faint sound of a door opening and closing echoes. I turn around just in time to see her entering the living room, her hand clutching my phone like it’s a rare commodity.

“As good as new.” Smiling, she hands it to me. “I even gave it a good scrub.”

“There was no need. Believe it or not, I’m pretty meticulous when it comes to hygiene. I clean up after I finish everything. My brother calls it OCD.”

Her groomed eyebrows shoot up as she asks in surprise, “OCD?”

“Yes. Even addicts suffer from it.”

“I thought you weren’t an addict.”

The fact that she seems to have warmed up to me a little bit, and no longer looks like she wants to rip my head off, doesn’t escape me.

“I’m not.” I point at the phone in her open hand. “Why don’t you keep it for now?”

She opens her mouth, then closes it again, seemingly at a loss for words. I turn back to the mirror hanging on the wall and regard her through my reflection. “Do you think I should cut my hair?”

“You’re vain, aren’t you?” She laughs, the sound both innocent and sexy as hell.

“Why? Because you always seem to find me standing in front of a mirror?”

“I know, right?” She laughs again and takes a step toward me.

The ice queen is melting.

I chuckle, inwardly pleased with the progress a little gesture has made. “Since I’ve got all the time in the world, I thought I could take a little more care of myself.”

“There’s nothing wrong with taking care of yourself. Just be careful that you don’t fall in love with your image or the mirror might end up glued to your chest.” Her smile widens and there’s a sparkle in her eyes.

She isn’t just snarky; she also has a sense of humor. I find that I like that about her.

“I don’t think I can,” I say honestly.

“What?”

---