The Roommate Agreement

Reaching up, I laid my hand over his on my cheek. His palm was so rough yet smooth at the same time. Like he used moisturizer right after he lifted weights as heavy as I was.

I kind of wanted to nuzzle against it like a kitten and ask if he’d pet me.

“Sleep on it,” he suggested. “Sleep on this conversation, and we’ll revisit in the morning. I’m not at work until midday. Georgia is opening for the first time tomorrow with Oli.”

“Okay,” I replied, even though I knew I wouldn’t sleep a wink.

“Just don’t make pancakes, okay? Actually, if you’re friend-zoning me, make them. Then make them to warn me. But can you make them before I come into the kitchen so I know what to expect?”

Despite the emotion hurtling through my body, I couldn’t help but laugh.

“Deal.”

• • •

Let it be known that Shelby Daniels was a troll.

That’s right. I was going to own the fuck out of that label as I mixed chocolate-chip pancake batter.

I figured turnabout was fair play. Jay had made me talk emotions, so now I was going to get my own back, Shelby-style.

“Dancing with a Stranger” by Sam Smith and Normani was bursting from my phone, and I sang along and twirled through the kitchen to the beat. Which was, actually, a lot of hip swaying like I was freakin’ Shakira.

Sometime around two in the morning, I’d made my choice.

If I didn’t try now, I’d forever hate myself. If I didn’t tell Jay that it was worth pursuing something, I’d forever be plagued with thoughts of what-if.

I hated those.

They were often the basis of my plots but in real life? Not a fan.

We had to figure it out, though. It wouldn’t be easy. We lived together. Our friendship was important. But what could one date hurt?

It couldn’t.

I tossed one pancake onto the stack and poured another, swaying from side to side.

“Oh, shit, I smell pancakes.”

I grinned, dipping my head so he couldn’t see. “Good morning.”

“Is it?” Jay said warily.

I peered over my shoulder as the pancake batter bubbled. His hair was sticking up at all angles, and he wore his uniform lazy outfit: sweat shorts and a t-shirt. He had the look of someone who’d just woken up and come running to the kitchen.

“The sun is shining. There’s a bird outside who finally stopped singing when I did, and I’m making pancakes. Is there anything bad about this morning?”

“Well, you’re making pancakes. Also, you’re singing. That’s not good at any point of the day. Especially not the shower.”

My lips twisted. “You’ve never heard you singing in the shower, clearly.”

“Hey—I’m a regular Ed Sheeran in the shower. I can sing the fuck out of ‘Shape Of You.’”

“No.” I shook my head. “You can’t. Unless you’d like to drown cats and compare your voice, that is.”

He grunted. “You’re making pancakes.”

“Yes.”

“I know what that means.”

“You forgot to put your Pop-Tart wrapper in the trash?”

“Bad news,” he said.

“I don’t know. If you think I ran to the store at seven a.m. for chocolate syrup and berries for bad news, well, maybe you’ve put the news on.”

“Should I have?”

I put the latest pancake on the stack. “Not in my experience. It’s never good when I look.”

“I can’t decide if you’re trying to let a guy down gently or if you’re trolling the fuck out of me.”

I shrugged and poured another pancake. “Figure it out.”

“If I could, I would.”

Another shrug. “Eh.”

I flipped the pancake. It landed perfectly in the pan, and I grabbed my phone. I changed the song to “Shape of You” and grinned at Jay. “Sing, monkey, sing.”

He laughed, coming over to the coffee machine. “Only in the shower. It doesn’t sound the same outside of it.”

“Aw, damn. I thought there’d be some kind of entertainment for breakfast.”

“All right, I’m starting to think you’re trolling me.”

I flipped the final pancake onto the stack and turned off the stove. I carried it over to the island and came back for the toppings. Jay joined me, carrying two coffees, and set one in front of me.

“Thanks.” I smiled and took three pancakes for my plate, leaving him five.

His eyebrows shot up. “If you’re leaving me an extra pancake, I know it’s bad news.”

“Shut up and eat.” I grabbed the chocolate syrup and drizzled it over my pancakes, then took some of the sliced bananas, strawberries, and raspberries.

“There’s an order I can live with.” He did the same, piling his plate with the cut fruit before he drizzled basically half the bottle of syrup over his plate.

I side-eyed it for a second before going back to my breakfast.

Really. And he said I was the one with the bad diet.

There was more sugar on his plate than in the candy aisle at Target.

And I knew because I was a fan of that aisle.