Page 35 of Personal Foul

“I have a guest room, you know. You could sleep in mine if you really want to. I don’t have a problem with that—wait, do you snore?”

“Not that I know of,” she answers, clearly bewildered by this whole turn of the conversation.

“Good. I’m a light sleeper, so if you snored like a freight train, that might be an issue. But either way—my room or the guest room—you should stay.”

Her eyes narrow, and she crosses her arms, her initial shock melting away to be replaced by her usual suspicion around me. “And why, pray tell, would I do that?”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Charity

I stare at Dylan, waiting for him to reveal the reason he thinks me staying the night would be a good idea. And then I realize I haven’t been paying attention to the popcorn.

On my microwave, I know exactly how long to put it in for. But a different microwave and different dishes mean I need to listen for the pops to space out, and he’s distracted me enough that it’s gotten there without me noticing.

“Shit shit shit.” I spring into action, surprising Dylan by jumping past him to slap the stop button.

He smothers a laugh at my behavior. “You alright there?”

“Fine, fine.” I wave him off and pull open a drawer to get the oven mitts so I can take the popcorn out of the microwave.

He watches me in silence as I set the bowl on the counter, remove the plate, then cut a chunk of butter off the stick and drop it on the hot plate to melt.

“Oh, that’s clever,” he murmurs, his voice low and far too close to my ear for my comfort, raising goosebumps and making my hormones perk up again. My nipples too, dammit.

What is his deal, though? He seems to think that fake dating means we might as well make it real. And I amnoton board with that plan at all. At least my brain isn’t. My body seems to have other ideas …

Doing my best to ignore the solid wall of his chest crowding against my back, I squeeze past him to get the salt—bougie sea salt in a grinder, of course. We wouldn’t want peasant level iodized salt in here.

God, even my thoughts around him sound bitchy. And he’s being nice—mostly. Maybe I need to chill.

I pull a silicone spatula out of the drawer by the stove and use it to push the butter around on the plate so it’ll melt faster. Once it’s all the way melted, I drizzle it over the popcorn in the bowl, grind a bunch of salt over it all, and stir it gently with the spatula.

When I turn, bowl of popcorn in hand, Dylan’s back at his spot by the microwave, his arms crossed as he watches me. If I didn’t know him better, I might think he’s cranky with me, but I’ve come to realize that he basically has resting bitch face.

It works on him, with a face like a male model. High cheekbones, slim, straight nose, square jaw, full pouty lips, piercing blue eyes. Like those pics that get passed around the internet every so often of the hot guy’s mug shots.

Why is resting bitch face hot on guys but the worst for women? Because it’s not just about general attractiveness. Resting bitch face on an unattractive person no matter their gender is just extra unattractive. But hot guys can have resting bitch face and get drooled over, and even beautiful women can’t.

Misogyny for the win, I guess.

“Can you get me another glass of water, please?” I ask Dylan.

He grunts in acknowledgment and pushes away from the cabinets, fetching my water glass and refilling it from the refrigerator door. While he does that, I claim my spot on the couch again, propping my back against the arm of the couch and setting the bowl in my lap with the oven mitts between my legs and the bowl. It’s still pretty hot from the microwave.

Setting my water down on my side table, he studies me with a furrowed brow. “You’re still sitting way over here?”

I look around, confused. “Yeah? Where else would I sit?”

He crosses his arms and looks down his nose at me. “You’re not planning on sharing the popcorn?”

“Oh, uh …” I look around again. “I guess I didn’t realize you wanted some?”

“Of course I want some.” He sits down in his spot on the other end of the couch and takes a sip of his beer. Then without warning, he leans over, grabs my ankle, and drags me closer, popcorn bowl and all.

“Aaah! What are you doing?” I kick my foot, trying to dislodge his hand, but his grip is like iron, and I can’t kick too hard or I’ll dump the popcorn everywhere.

And we all know who’d be cleaning up that mess. Which, of course I would anyway, because if you make a mess, you should clean it up, but is it really my fault if he’s the reason I was flailing in the first place?

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