by Max Monroe
No fucking way he was this forward thinking in the interior decoration department.
The minimalist approach was completely modern and highlighted with strategically placed black, white, and gray accents.
Whoever had designed this place had a very keen eye. They had known the huge window framing the living room would bring in natural light that would make the darker style appear warm and inviting versus drab and melancholy.
The photographer inside me wanted to add a few black-and-white photographs of places I had traveled to the walls beside that huge window, which only led to my confusion.
Was I really moving in now? Decorating his shit?
Needing information, I found the ability to move my body off his couch and into his bedroom, where I had last left my purse. I grabbed my phone, plopped down on his big-ass bed, and called the one and only person I could call in a moment like this.
“Well, hello, Cass,” Georgia answered, and her voice hinted at amusement.
My eyebrows rose with suspicion. “It sounds like you were expecting my call.”
“Why would you say that?” She feigned bewilderment. The day Georgia Brooks was able to lie with a straight face and a convincing voice, hell would freeze over and I’d be able to teleport myself onto David Gandy’s cock whenever I wanted.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I answered, laughing a little at how truly terrible my best friend was at lying. “Maybe because you can barely hold back your giggles. And I know for a fact, when you’re two seconds away from turning giggly, you’re one hundred percent full of shit.”
“I am not full of shit,” she responded, but I could literally hear her swallow the urge to burst into laughter.
“Acting would’ve been a horrible career path for you, by the way,” I teased. “But since I love you, I’m going to take the bait and act like I actually believe the words coming out of your mouth.”
“I’m not lying!” she exclaimed.
“Uh-huh, sure you’re not… Would you like me to tell you about what just happened?”
“Yes,” she responded far too quickly. My spidey sense was tingling. She already knew something.
“Well, I’m at Thatch’s apartment, and honestly, I’m not sure if I should start calling it my apartment.” I sat up from the bed and stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows that gave a gracious view of the city. “My original plan was to fake move in and ruffle the prankster’s feathers a bit, but things didn’t exactly go as planned.”
“What happened?”
“Well, he didn’t freak out or try to get a restraining order. He got naked, took a shower, and then went out to get us dinner. Not gonna lie, I’m not quite sure what to do with this.”
“Do you think he’s…maybe…screwing with you back?”
“Do you think he’s doing that?” I tossed her question back. “Why don’t you just go ahead and tell me what you already know?”
Fabric rustled in the background like maybe she was covering the mouthpiece of her phone.
“I’m not saying I know anything, but I’m not saying I don’t either,” she answered vaguely when a slight hum of ambient noise returned to the line.
Georgia was a special brand of fiddle. You had to really tune her up right, and begging wasn’t the way to do it. But, as her longtime best friend, I knew the one thing that would make her little informational bow fly—act like I was freaking the fuck out. Her immune system had absolute shit defense against hysteria.
“So…I shouldn’t be concerned? I mean, what if when he says he’s got his hands in all kinds of things, he’s actually living a secret life? What if I just accidentally moved in with the next Ted Bundy?” I forced my voice to rise a few octaves toward panic.
“Cassie,” she started to chime in, but I cut her off, going all out with the dramatics.
“What am I supposed to do now? I think I just moved myself in with a psychopath! What if he’s a serial killer, Wheorgie?” I started rummaging through his nightstand for added effect, knowing full well she’d be able to hear the commotion. Condoms. Ticket stubs. An old cell phone. No Beretta 9mm or bowl of teeth.
“Cass, calm down.” She tried to talk over me, but I kept up the charade.
“There’s nothing in his nightstand, but serial killers are notorious for covering all of their tracks. They don’t hide shit in their nightstands, do they! Oh God, they hide things under floorboards and behind secret doors where they have their stash of crazy and walls filled with pictures of their victims! Oh. My. God. I’m going to end up on one of those FBI Files shows, and it will be all your fault!”
I hopped off the bed and put the phone on speaker as I started stomping my feet along the hardwood floor. “The secret floorboards would sound hollow, right? And what are secret doors supposed to sound like when you find them?”
“Cassie!” Georgia’s voice echoed inside the bedroom.
“What?” I asked as I continued stomping my feet along the floor.
“Stop going through his shit. Thatch is not a serial killer.”
Once my feet got tired, I grabbed a nail file from my purse and sat down on the beige chaise in front of the window. “Then why is he going to get us dinner?” I yelled as I filed my nails. “Why isn’t he freaking out that some stranger—albeit a very attractive woman—took it upon herself to just move in with him?”
Come on, Georgia. Spill the juicy gossip. You know you want to…
“I’m like ninety-nine percent sure he’s messing with you back. He might be on to your prank,” she finally admitted on a whisper.
“Ninety-nine percent sure is not reassuring, Wheorgie! That one percent could be the one percent that has me ending up on a missing persons’ website!” I shouted as I held my right hand out in front of me. Man, oh man, I really need a manicure.
“I think he might be mentally disturbed, G! I wonder if I should try to get out of here before he comes back with dinner. Holy. Fuck. What if dinner is code for something else?” I asked on a dramatic gasp.
“Oh. My. God. Seriously, calm down and stop yelling in my ear,” she responded in irritation. “Thatch isn’t a serial killer. He’s not a psychopath or mentally disturbed. He called Kline the second he left his apartment to grab dinner. He knows you’re pranking him.”
Bingo.
“Oh, okay. Thanks for the info,” I answered in a normal tone.
The phone went silent for a few seconds.
“You are such an asshole,” she eventually responded with an incredulous laugh. “Why do I always fall for your bullshit?”
I shrugged. “I have no idea, sweetheart, but I can’t believe that big motherfucker is trying to one-up me. He’s in for a rude awakening if he thinks I’m going to be the one to raise the white flag,” I announced, determined.
“Uh oh… This sounds like it could end badly,” Georgia said in concern. Although, her concern didn’t really sound all that concerned. It sounded more excited than anything else.
“Yeah, you’re right. This could end badly, but I will not be the one to say uncle. Even if I have to continue this little prank war until I’m on my deathbed, you can bet your sweet ass I will come out victorious.”
“Oh, Jesus,” she responded with a laugh. “What exactly are you plotting? You promised you wouldn’t kill Thatch until after Kline’s birthday.”
“The only thing that will die at the end of this is a big part of the Jolly Green Giant’s ego.”
She laughed. “There’s a small part of me that feels bad for wanting to encourage this.”
“If anything, Thatch deserves this.”
He has to pay for making my steel-barricaded heart feel like maybe it isn’t impenetrable after all.
“I think that’s pretty debatable, Casshead. And mostly depends on what you have planned. Thatch is actually a really good guy. Kline says he’s—”
I didn’t want to hear it. I already liked the guy enough all on my own.
“Yeah, speaking of plans, I gotta scoot. My roommate
will be coming home with dinner soon, and I need to make myself nice and comfortable in my new humble abode.”
“Okay…” she said and then paused. “You should probably avoid a few things, though. You know, just a few things that might make him mad.”
Well, I’ll be damned, Georgia could be a little devious when she wanted to.
“And what exactly would those things be?”
“Well, for starters, he only keeps one item of junk food in his pantry, and he gets pretty pissed when someone eats it. So, don’t eat his Trix cereal. Whatever you do, I wouldn’t do that.”
“Jesus, he’s like a giant toddler. I’ll be sure to stay away from his favorite sugar fix.”
Or I’ll eat the whole fucking box in one sitting.
“And don’t mess with his DVR. He records all of his favorite teams and a few shows. One of which is America’s Next Top Model, which I gotta say, I kind of find endearing.”
“Got it. Don’t mess with the sports.” Or I’d delete the games and, obviously, keep Top Model. “Any other no-gos?”
“And he’s a bit of stickler for keeping your shoes off in his apartment. So I would always make sure you take your shoes off at the door. Do not wear them around his place.”
“Shoes off, always. Got it.”
Or I’d never take my shoes off. Ever. Hell, I’d probably start showering in them.
“All right, G. I better go and make sure I’m not doing any of those things.”
“Good plan.”
After I hung up the phone, I slid on my oldest pair of Chucks and headed into the kitchen. I found a serving bowl, filled it to the brim with Trix and milk, and made my way into the living room where I proceeded to sprawl out on his couch and scroll through his DVR recordings.
ESPN SportsCenter… Goddammit, I can’t delete that.
America’s Next Top Model… Of course, keep.
The Late Late Show with James Corden… Keep.
Family Guy… Keep.
It’s Always Sunny… Keep.
The Voice… Fuck. Keep.
Well, this wasn’t going as planned. At. All. He had the same taste in television as I did.
“Honey, I’m home!” Thatch called as he came through the door. I heard his footfalls stop in the entryway while he was predictably taking his shoes off. “Where are you, Cass?”
“I’m on the couch. Bring the food in here, baby!” I yelled over my shoulder, adding my own endearment as a counterpart to his. If he wanted to crawl up my ass, I could do the same to him. I was Cassie fucking Phillips. I could handle whatever he threw my way.
Well, maybe not literal anal fisting. I don’t think I could handle that. His hands were big.
He strode into the living room with two bags of Chinese takeout in hand and stopped dead in his tracks when he found me on his sofa.
“Hi,” I greeted with a sugary smile as I took an equally sugary bite of his favorite cereal. “Sorry,” I continued over a mouthful, “I got too hungry waiting for you to get back.”
His brown eyes looked me over, and once they saw the shoe-covered foot resting on his pristine leather couch, I swore I saw his jaw tick a few times in response, but somehow, he managed to force his face into an annoyingly neutral expression.
I swallowed the bite and asked, “What’d ya get?”
“I hope you like Chinese. I would’ve gotten your favorite food, but I don’t know it.” He flashed a smirk in my direction as he set the bags on the coffee table and sat down beside me. “But I guess that’s how all serious, live-in relationships start out, right? Not knowing anything about each other. Seems normal to me,” he said with a shrug as he pulled cartons from the bag.
God, he was such a smartass, and I couldn’t deny that I enjoyed that aspect of his personality endlessly.
“Well, mystery is what makes a good relationship.” I set my serving bowl onto the table and started opening up the cartons. “At least I’ve heard that somewhere…like Cosmo or Georgie? I mean, look at them. They were catfishing each other, and it worked out pretty damn good.”
He chuckled at that. “Yeah, I’d say it worked out well for both of them.”
“Can I have the orange chicken, sweetie pie?” I asked, holding up the carton in his direction.
“Anything for you, honeybunch,” he said, flashing a wink. He grabbed the remote from my lap and turned on SportsCenter. As the sportscaster rolled through the Top Ten Highlights, Thatch leaned back on the couch and started to dig into a container of Kung Pao Chicken.
I made myself even more comfortable, stretching my legs out and placing my shoe-clad feet in his lap, but to my disappointment, he briefly glanced down and then his eyes went back to the TV as he continued eating his food. And even though I had eaten the equivalent of half a box of cereal, I couldn’t resist gorging on Chinese while we sat in silence for a while, just eating and watching SportsCenter. It was oddly comforting.
I didn’t realize he had finished his food until he was busy untying my laces and gently removing my shoes and socks. Next thing I knew, his big hands were massaging the soles of my feet while his gaze stayed fixated on the television.
The whole scene felt way too instinctive on his part. I honestly didn’t know if he even realized he was doing it, and that was probably why I found myself asking, “Have you ever had a roommate before?”
“Kline and I were roommates in college,” he answered without looking in my direction.
I removed my foot from his grip and tapped his thigh, urging his attention.
He looked at me, tilting his head in slight confusion.
“I meant roommate of the female persuasion.”
“No.” He shook his head. “I’ve never lived with a woman.”
Interesting. Maybe he had just had a lot of girlfriends? Because, yeah, his hands were real fucking good at giving massages.
“When was your last girlfriend?”
“It’s been a while,” he answered cryptically.
“A while? Like a few years?”
“I haven’t had a girlfriend since high school.”
“High school?” I questioned in shock.
He nodded. “Like I said, it’s been a while.”
“Wow. That’s a really long time.”
He turned his body toward mine while he kept my feet firmly in his lap and his hands kept massaging all of the most perfect spots. I had to fight the urge to moan when he started using his thumbs on my heels.
“What about you? Have you ever lived with a guy before?” he asked, turning the tables on me.
“No.”
“When was your last relationship?”
“Um…a while ago.” Or never.
He raised an eyebrow and smirked. “A while? Like a few months or a few years?”
“What constitutes a relationship, exactly?”
Thatch laughed. “I’d say it would be the last time you considered someone your boyfriend.”
“Then I guess I’d have to say a while, meaning never.”
His brow scrunched into a firm line. “You’ve never had a boyfriend?”
“Nope.” I shook my head. “I’ve dated, but never long enough to hit the boyfriend-girlfriend milestone.”
“Any particular reason?”
“Not really.” I shrugged. “I’ve just never found anyone who kept my interest longer than three or four dates. I’m aware that makes me sound like I’m scared of commitment, but in reality, I just don’t like wasting time. And not just my time—anyone’s time. If I’m not feeling it or shit feels forced, then it’s better to end it than let something continue when I know it’s not going to work out in the end.”
Thatch nodded in agreement. “I respect that.”
“Really?” I asked and squinted a little in surprise. Not that I had ever made a point to care what other people thought about my life choices, but Thatch’s neutral reaction was the opposite of pretty much everyone. Hell, even my mother—who for most of her life had encouraged me to do what made m
e happy—had recently started bombarding me with questions about whether or not I’d ever settle down. Although, I had a feeling that concern was more focused on the second female biological clock, the one people forgot to mention, than anything else: Grandchildren.
“Yes, Cass.” He tapped my foot and offered a small smile. “I definitely respect the fact that you’re open and honest and don’t beat around the fucking bush when it comes to relationships. I wish more women had that mind-set. Most would probably find that waiting on the right man is better than settling with some dipshit who doesn’t deserve them. And it’s more respectful to the other party than pretending to be all in when you’re not.”
For some reason, the softness in his coffee-colored eyes had me giving him more insight into my life and lack of relationship history. “In college, I never had a boyfriend because I didn’t want a boyfriend. I was one of those rare girls who enjoyed being single and just doing my own thing. And once I graduated and started my career, I was traveling all the time in the beginning. Four months would go by, and I’d maybe be in New York for a week or two, tops. That lifestyle never really made a relationship possible.”
“Do you still travel that much?”
“Fuck no. But that’s only because all of that traveling paid off. I paved my own path and created a good reputation for myself.”
“A reputation that generally revolves around taking pics of half-naked men?” he asked in a teasing tone.
“What can I say? I have an eye for good-looking men, muscles, and sometimes, a nice, thick bulge in a pair of Calvin Klein’s,” I declared with a wink.
I expected him to retort with something about his thick bulge, but he merely laughed and continued to massage my feet, working those big hands up to my calves.
Hmmm…maybe Thatcher Kelly could be serious every once in a while?
I glanced at the clock on the cable box and saw it was nearly ten o’clock. “Well, roomie, I better hit the hay. I have to be out the door before dawn for a shoot in the Hamptons.”
