Page 38 of Better When Shared
The waiter appeared with a fresh glass of water, breaking my dangerous train of thought.
While I waited, I pulled out my phone, scrolling absently through emails I'd already read. Anything to distract myself from memories better left buried.
That's when I felt it—that peculiar prickling awareness that makes the hairs on your neck stand up. I glanced toward the restaurant entrance, and there he was, scanning the room.
Julian Brooks.
I’d hoped to discover he’d not aged well, but, if anything, he looked better than he had at twenty-two. His lanky frame had filled out with lean muscle, shoulders broader under a tailored navy button-down. His rectangular glasses—stylish now, not the nerdy frames from college—somehow enhanced his angular features rather than hiding them.
My mouth went dry. Seven years evaporated like morning mist.
He spotted me, his face lighting with recognition. I stood on autopilot, my body remembering protocols my brain was too busy short-circuiting to recall. And then I noticed the woman beside him—petite, South Asian, curved in all the right places, with glossy black hair tumbling over shoulders. She turned toward me, and my heart stopped dead in my chest.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fucking fuck.
The yoga goddess from Zenith. The woman I'd pressed against a wall and kissed senseless two weeks ago. The woman whose tight little body had ground against mine while I'd imagined all the filthy things I wanted to do to her.
I’d dry humped Julian's wife.
Her eyes widened in recognition before she schooled her features into something resembling polite interest.
"Caleb!" Julian's voice hadn't changed—that same warm baritone that used to narrate our escapades, commanding me to touch whatever woman we were sharing. "Man, it's been too fucking long."
He pulled me into a hug, clapping my back with enough force to snap me out of my shocked stupor. I returned the embrace automatically, hyperaware of his cologne—something woodsy and expensive—and the solid feel of him. We separated, and I forced my face into what I hoped was a convincing smile.
"Julian. Good to see you, mate." My voice wavered with nerves, and I hoped they couldn’t hear it.
Julian stepped back, hand sliding to the small of his wife's back. "This is my wife, Nisha. Nish, this is Caleb—the roommate I told you about."
Her handshake was firm, her smile dazzling and devious. "So nice to meet you, Caleb. Julian's told me so much about your... adventures together."
Jesus Christ. Had he told her everything? Did she know we used to tag-team women?
"All exaggerated, I'm sure," I managed, gesturing toward the booth. "Please, sit."
I slid into the semicircular booth first, expecting them to sit together, but Nisha slipped in beside me, leaving Julian to take the outside position. The booth suddenly felt much smaller, her thigh a whisper away from mine.
Julian settled in, examining me with undisguised curiosity. "You haven't changed a bit, man. Still the same pretty boy who got us into all that trouble."
I laughed, grateful for the server’s timing as he delivered waters to the table. "Are we ordering drinks?"
"If you like," Julian said, scanning the cocktail menu. "Nisha?"
"Maybe a glass of wine," she replied. "Nothing too strong."
The waiter took their orders—chardonnay for Nisha and a local IPA for Julian—and promised to return for dinner selections. An awkward silence threatened until Julian excused himself.
"Sorry, bathroom," he explained, sliding out of the booth. "Be right back."
The moment he was out of earshot, Nisha turned to me, her expression a mixture of shock and amusement. "What the actual fuck, Caleb? You're Julian's college roommate? The one he had threesomes with?"
I drained half my whiskey in one desperate gulp. "And you're his wife. How?" I lowered my voice to a harsh whisper. "Did you know? Was this some kind of setup?"
"God, no!" Her eyes widened. "I had no idea. He never mentioned your name, just that his old roommate was in town." She leaned closer, her perfume making my head swim. "Fuck, this is insane. We need to tell him."
"Tell him what? That I had my tongue down his wife's throat two weeks ago?" Panic clawed at my chest. "He'll fucking kill me."
Nisha's lips curved into a slow, wicked smile that made my cock stir despite the catastrophic circumstances. "Actually, he might not."
