by Brill Harper
I’ll figure something out. I can’t stay with them forever. But tonight, I’m safe. Tomorrow can work itself out.
Chapter Two
THE NEXT MORNING, I stumble out of the third bedroom at Fletch’s house with acquiring coffee the only thing on my mind. I rummage through the kitchen, alarmed when I don’t see any kind of magic machine to make my morning cuppa.
Why didn’t I bring my little French press?
Oh, yeah, because when I went to use it yesterday, I found it on the windowsill of my dorm room. Where I know I didn’t put it. Shortly after that, I found the message on the mattress, and now even my life-giving coffee carafe is suspect. I don’t know what Sami might have done to it. I left it on the windowsill when we left.
I open the last cabinet in the kitchen and spy a Mr. Coffee on the top shelf. Whew. But I haven’t seen any coffee in my search. What if there isn’t any coffee to put into the Mr. Coffee?
One problem at a time, Winters.
The top shelf happens to be very, very high when you are 5’2”. I climb onto the counter, but even on my knees, I can’t quite reach—
An arm wraps around my waist, and I’m supported by a warm wall of flesh from behind. “I didn’t save you from murder so you could kill yourself in my kitchen a day later, squirt.”
“Coffee,” I squeak. That’s the extent of my communication skills.
Because on top of my uncaffeinated state, the wall of flesh behind me has short circuited every nerve pathway in my body all at once.
Fletch pulls me down with one arm, his warm hand slipping under the hem of my t-shirt a bit while I slide down his body, his other hand reaching for the coffee maker. He can’t know or possibly understand how this is the most sexual encounter with a guy I’ve ever had. But my body knows. My nipples tighten, and my panties are wet.
He hasn’t stepped away, so I’m trapped between his hard body and the counter. “There.”
I close my eyes and his hand roams higher, squeezing my breast.
In my fantasy. Naturally.
Which is so much better than my old fantasy of him telling a room full of people we are dating. But also way more inappropriate. I do not need to kickstart Fletch back to the top of my fantasy list. But I’m not sure I’m going to have much control over it.
“Anything else?” he asks.
I suppose I can’t ask him to show me his penis. Or bend me over the counter and make a woman out of me. So I answer, “Please tell me you have coffee for this thing.”
He chuckles lowly, and I swear to God the sound of his voice tugs on the string inside of me connecting my nipples to my secret garden girl parts. He steps away, leaving me bereft and empty, and opens another cabinet, rearranging the contents and pulling out a red can of not exactly awesome ground coffee.
“From the look on your face, this is not the news you were hoping for.”
I try to relax my grimace. “I’m a horrible house guest. Sorry. I just...Fletch, you were brought up better than store brand coffee.” I think longingly about his parents’ espresso machine. It was made in Italy, and their dad shines the chrome on it once a week. “What happened to you?”
He laughs. “I’m not much of a coffee drinker.”
I gasp.
“I left that to you and my sister. And my folks, of course.”
I guess I never really paid attention to his coffee habits. Or lack thereof. “We’re total coffee snobs, aren’t we?”
“Kinda yeah.” He points to the drip machine. “You know how to use one of these?”
I nod. “Does Shane drink coffee, or am I making a small pot?”
“We’ll both drink it. We just don’t usually make it.”
We stand there without saying anything for a second too long. His gaze slides through my skin. I can feel it deeper than I should. He’s just...how have I never noticed how wonderfully made he is? All my life, he was just Fletch. I knew he was cute—I knew he had a bunch of girlfriends, and that Jenna and I used to count the condoms in his nightstand and giggle when the number went down—but now I get it.
He’s like a gift to womankind.
He’s over six feet tall, broad shouldered, and lean muscled. His eyes...his eyes are dark as sin, but he’s always quick to smile. Quick to offer help. He holds doors. He carries heavy things. He teases to elicit smiles, not to be mean. He’s good at school, at sports, and social interaction. I’ve seen him drink, but never seen him drunk. He’s just always been this steady, capable presence in my life.
His mouth twitches, and I realize I’m being awkward. Since that’s my natural state, I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do about it. I break the weird eye contact, sweeping my gaze down the floor. To his toes. His feet are bare below his plaid green and blue pajama pants. Why does that feel intimate? I want to touch my toes to his. Run my foot up the back of his calf and feel the springy hairs there.
I shake my head and go about the surprisingly calming ritual of measuring grounds while Fletch pours orange juice for himself. “You’d be drinking that right out of the carton if I weren’t standing here, wouldn’t you?”
He gives me a lazy smile, and I’m close to my first orgasm with someone else in the room with me. Just from his smile. God. Pathetic much?
“What time does your roommate get back today? I want to get the rest of your stuff before she returns.”
And my mood is instantly broken. I don’t want to go back to the Portal of Death, but I can’t stay here. “I was thinking I’d give it another shot with Sami. I’m sure Housing will come up with something soon.”
“Nope,” he says like he’s got a say.
“Nope?” I repeat. In case I heard him wrong or something.
“Not going to happen.”
I’m hoping my raised eyebrows are enough to encourage more of a response, but I get nothing. “It’s not really your call, Fletch.”
The machine belches its signal that its done brewing, and Fletch hands me a mug. “It is my call. You’re staying here. Shane’s on board.”
“I can’t.”
“You are.”
The hair on the back of my neck raises. “You can’t just tell me what to do. I can’t stay here. I can’t pay you rent. And also, you are not the boss of me.”
I mean, I can still feel the heat of his hand where it touched the skin beneath my t-shirt. And I can still imagine him bending me over the counter. But he doesn’t get to tell me what to do.
“You could use someone to be the boss of you, but that’s not what I’m doing. I’m looking out for you.”
“No!” I don’t want to be a charity case.
“Yes!” he shouts back.
“Mom and Dad, please stop fighting.”
All my righteous anger dissipates when I follow the sound of the last comment to the doorway of the kitchen where Shane has his arms on either side of the door jamb above his head. Shane wearing low-slung sweats and nothing else.
Oh, my god. My brain is fried.
I knew he was good looking when I met him yesterday, but half-naked he is magnificent. He’s got the surfer look going for him—blond shaggy hair, lean physique, and eyes so blue I expect to see clouds drift by across his irises. But good looking has nothing on fresh-out-of-bed good looking, and I know what I’ll be thinking of next time I do my “research”.
He does two quick pull-ups in the door then glides into the room. “Seriously, you two fight like my folks. Is that coffee?”
“Well, it’s similar to coffee,” I say. Amazed I can say any damned thing at all because the way his shoulder blades move when he’s reaching for a mug makes me think about the way they’d move when he’s naked on top of me.
I am demented, and this is wrong. There is no way I can stay in this house. Torture by testosterone. I’ll die of longing.
“Why you blushing, little bit?” Shane asks. He’s eying me with a knowing smirk.
He can’t know, can he? God...what if he’s a mind reader?
I clear my throa
t. “I’m not blushing. It’s an anger flush, not a blush.”
One side of Shane’s mouth lifts, bringing out a dimple. A dimple! How the hell is that even fair to a girl? “An anger flush, eh?” he repeats.
“I’m...upset with Fletch acting like he has the right to tell me what to do. And...and...for you calling me little bit.”
“She’s cute. Let’s keep her,” Shane says over my head to Fletch.
Fletch lets out a masculine huff. It’s probably a laugh. But it’s low and growly and activates some serious aching between my legs. “We still going running?”
Shane nods, but he’s watching me closely. Too closely. “Yeah. I want to finish my coffee first.” He looks like he’s doing some sort of complicated math in his head as his gaze moves from me to Fletch back to me.
“A’ight. We’ll go to the dorms this afternoon. After the game. Pack up little bit.”
I turn to argue again, but Fletch has left the kitchen. I turn back to Shane and he’s grinning. It’s not a pleasant grin, I don’t think. “What?”
“Little sister has a crush on Fletch.”
“What? No.” I shake my head. “He’s hardly spoken ten words a year to me since I’ve known him, but now all of the sudden, he thinks he can just tell me what to do.”
Shane leans over me, trapping me in yet another cage of muscley man arms this morning while he tops off my coffee cup. I’m like centimeters away from his pectoral muscles. I could literally stick out my tongue and lick him. I press my lips together so hard they might bleed.
Do not lick the boy, Winters.
He eases back slowly. “Some girls like it when boys tell them what to do.”
Is it possible for labia to quiver? Because I think mine is quivering. What does Shane tell girls to do, I wonder?
No, no, no. Not going there. At least not until later when I’m alone.
“Not this girl,” I lie. I mean...I like knowing Fletch cares. And I like feeling protected. And I might like to be told what to do in bed because that sounds sexy, and since I don’t know what to do in bed, it would be a real time saver. But someone, some guy, just telling me how to live my life? No. No thank you.
And really, I need to stop thinking about Fletch and Shane and the word bed.
Oh, shit. Fletch and Shane and bed all in one thought. In one bed. Now I know what my next research category on the porn website is going to be.
“Fletch is a good guy. Too serious sometimes, but a good guy. You could do worse. You could do me.” Shane waggles his eyebrows, and it’s disgustingly charming.
I sip my coffee, if that is what we are calling it. “If I had a crush on either of you, which I don’t, it would be disastrous. You guys are made for different kinds of girls.”
Shane folds his arms across his chest, causing a really nice biceps bulge. “Sweetheart, I’m made for any kind of girl. You just say the word.”
He is definitely teasing me. “Right. Can we get back to the part about me not moving in. It would help if you would talk to him about it while you guys are on your run. He’ll listen to you.”
Shane shakes his head. “Now that is a laugh. Fletch is my best friend, but he doesn’t listen to me. I’m his personal project. He actually thinks that by the time we graduate, he’ll have made a responsible adult out of me. But the joke is on him.”
“The joke?”
“I’m not made to be a responsible adult. Life is too short. I like living on the edge, but Fletch likes balancing in the center. Someday, I’ll live in the garage apartment of his house. His kids will call me Uncle Shane, and I’ll still be his personal project.”
I frown. “Or you could get your own house and your own kids.”
“Nah. Not for me.” He carries his mug to the sink. “But don’t feel bad for me. I’m not going to be unhappy one single day. My life is going to be a non-stop party.”
“Sure.”
He laughs. “What about you? You look like the type that has it all mapped out already, even though you just turned eighteen.”
“I’m almost twenty, actually. I couldn’t start school until I was six for medical reasons.”
Shane use his hand to signal carry on. “And your life map?”
“I’m going to be a biochemist.”
“You figure you’ll marry at thirty, pop out a kid at thirty-two.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think I’ll ever get married.” I hadn’t ever thought of kids. But I’m guessing, based on the late timing of my hormones, my biological clock might not rear its head for a long, long time.
“You’ll get married.” He stops in the doorway and does another two pull-ups. “Maybe I’ll live above your garage someday.”
“I wouldn’t want to break up the wonder team. What would Fletch do without you above his garage?”
He just winks at me and leaves me there. I let out a shuddery breath and wonder how long I’ve been holding it.
Chapter Three
I’M STUMPED.
It’s my night to cook dinner, and I have rudimentary kitchen skills. At best. The sauce smells good, but I’m going to chalk that up to my excellent jar opening skills. I peer into the other pot where the water is roiling pretty well, and the noodles are snaking around. But how do I know when they are done? I’m not even sure why I’m still here. Why I have “my night to cook dinner.” Why I didn’t just call my parents and go home.
The guys somehow just short circuit my brain whenever I try to make alternate plans. I have to admit, it’s not bad living here. They are kind of messy, but not filthy or anything. We take turns cooking dinner Sunday through Thursday, weekends are pizza or on your own. They don’t party very hard. Fletch takes his classes more seriously than Shane, but homework and studying are part of our everyday life. And I don’t think either of them will kill me in my sleep like my last roommate, so I guess it’s working out.
Except for the part where I don’t cook very well. It’s not like the guys are Michelin chefs, but they at least have a rudimentary understanding of basic meals. Despite my academic success, I have no idea how to boil pasta, I guess.
The package is less than helpful. “Cook until done” is not going to win any Nobel Prizes in dinner making. Uncle Google will know. I pick up my phone and search, but now I need to know if we want it al dente or ...or what? Al un-dente?
“Smells delish, little sis.” Shane says as he enters the kitchen and pulls a beer out of the fridge. “When’s dinner?”
Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?
“I don’t know. As soon as I figure out if the noodles are done. Do you know?”
“You gotta throw them at the wall.”
Right. I should have known better than to expect a serious answer from Shane.
“I’m being for real.”
I’ve been here a week, and it’s not possible to know when he’s teasing or truthing. So I just look at him and shake my head. “I’m supposed to throw a pot full of boiling water and spaghetti at the wall?”
He squares his jaw and looks to the heavens for help. “Throw a noodle at the wall. Not the pot. Not all the noodles. Just one. If it sticks, it’s done.”
I look back at my phone. Huh, he’s not teasing. That’s a thing.
We fish in the pot for one noodle, and I fling it at the wall. Success! Shane high-fives me, and I carry the pot to the sink to strain the water.
“I’ll clear the table. We can eat like civilized people at a table tonight.”
My heart clutches. I left my stuff out when I went to stir the sauce. My notebook is probably open.
“No! Wait!” I turn from the sink, but my glasses are steamed from the noodle water, and I can’t see him.
Please don’t let him—
“You’re using the scientific method to get laid, little bit?”
—see my notebook.
I tear my glasses off and cross the room. “Give it back.”
I try to grab the notebook, but he holds it easily over his head and out
of my reach and starts reading from it. Damn my perfect penmanship. Why couldn’t I have chicken-scratch that no one but me can read?
“1. What will increase my chances of getting laid this year. 2. Research—”
I jump up in a freak moment of dexterity and manage to snag the notebook from his hand.
“Smells good in here,” Fletch says, coming into the kitchen and going right to the stove, lifting the lid on the sauce.
I close my eyes and clutch the notebook to my chest. I am going to die. How much did Shane see?
I think better on paper, and I think best using science. I have a problem, so I relied on both to help me figure it out. I need to get better with boys. I need to go on dates, get kissed, and see a penis that doesn’t belong to a porn star. So I started to break it down in my notebook using the scientific method because that is how I think.
I need Shane to not have seen too much of my notes.
“Why is your face so red?” Fletch asks.
“The steam from the noodles.” I nod toward the sink. “I was just straining them.”
I cast a warning glance at Shane. Pleading with my eyes for him to shut up.
“Are you really a virgin, Penelope?” he asks.
Well, that answers how much he saw.
I slump into a chair and groan. “Oh, my God. I can’t believe you just asked me that.” I put my head down like we used to on our desks in school. I wish I could transport myself back there. Life was so much simpler then. I look up. “I’m not answering you.”
“It’s none of our business,” Fletch adds, shooting Shane a look and turning almost as red as I am.
“Yeah, none of your business,” I echo. “Could you just forget you saw that? Please?”
“What did you see?” Fletch asks.
“Velma here has been using her composition notebook to track her very naughty progress through her sexuality.”
