Head Over Feels

I settle on the bed, leaning against the headboard, but glance at the dishes in the sink. “Yeah, I’m broke, so I have to cook.”

“You meet us out for meals.”

I laugh lightly, and then say, “That’s why I eat in the rest of the time.” When he doesn’t laugh, I bite my lip, feeling awkward. “I do enjoy cooking, though, so it works out.”

“You can cook whenever you want when you move in.” The way his head tilts down and his eyes study me, I’m curious what he’s thinking. “I have a lot of top-of-the-line cookware that never gets any action.”

“I can relate,” I say under my breath.

“What?”

Ack! “Um, I can make use of those pots and pans. Cooking for two will be more fun than for one.”

I stare at him while he takes a long pull from the bottle.

Oh.

My.

God.

Captivated by the way the light brings out the golden centers of his eyes, I stare at him. His magnetism has my tummy tightening. Those eyes, his broad shoulders, the tailored suit, sexy-messy hair, and darkening eyes as they devour me with a look—Good lord, this man is perfection.

Why have I never been so affected by how utterly gorgeous he is before?

I’ve always thought he was incredibly attractive, but we’re friends. He’s gone out of his way to make sure there was no opportunity for it to be anything else, and honestly, that’s probably for the best.

So why am I suddenly wishing we could be more?

My insides tighten.

It’s a futile thought. I know it.

We can’t.

We shouldn’t.

I shouldn’t. I should leave the man alone. He clearly has enough attention from the world and doesn’t need me drooling all over him. Especially since he’s being so kind and offering me a place to stay.

Be smart, Tealey. And then mop up the drool when he leaves.

I force myself to look away from him, then down two large gulps of beer, praying he won’t second-guess his offer to me after my awkwardness. When I turn back—Damn, why does he have to be so hot?

He smirks and just about does me in, but then he licks his lips, and I find myself biting mine. He asks, “Should I open a window? You look a bit flush.”

“I’m fine. So fine.” I clamp my mouth shut, turning my gaze to the ceiling. What am I doing?

He says, “It will be fun to have a roommate.”

“Roommate.” Good reminder. Great, in fact.

Roommates.

Friends. Only friends.

But if we’re only friends, why am I now staring at him like there’s a possibility of more?

God, I’m in so much trouble.

8

Tealey

Rad always looks incredible in his tailored suits, but seeing him with his shirtsleeves rolled up, a large watch wrapped around his wrist, and a towel draped over his shoulder while washing dishes brings a whole new meaning to erotica. Watching a man doing chores is divine, but when they offer, even when they didn’t dirty the dishes, it’s swoon-worthy.

As if reminiscing about how he renovated his building, images of sweaty and shirtless Rad racing back, he tries to do me in with domestic duties. I still don’t know how in the hell I got distracted by other guys back in college when this Adonis was right there all along. I check to make sure the air-conditioning is working before I reach the brink of spontaneous combustion.

After he insisted that I pack as he washes the dishes, he dries them and sets them on the drying rack. Time has gone too fast, fun always making it fly. Not that packing is fun, but spending time with Rad has been tonight. “I rode in a cab, but I can take one or two boxes back with me if you like.”

“Oh, uh . . .” I look around, thinking what would be easy to carry.

The veins in his forearms are mesmerizing as they work together while he tosses the dish towel behind him on the counter.

Fanning myself, I say, “I, um . . . clothes, maybe my dishes . . . hm.” He’s too distracting, so I cross the room, spying my treasured box of mugs I packed earlier. “I have this box I worry about moving. I’d hate for anything in it to get broken in a truck.”

After drying his hands, he hangs the towel on the rack’s hook. He turns to eye the box and then steadies his gaze on me. “I’ll handle it with care.”

Needing to cool down under the heat creeping up my neck, I tug the collar of my shirt away, but I’m quickly reminded that it’s already hanging off my shoulder, so I play it off and tug on my earlobe instead. His eyes follow the motion, but then he clears his throat, checks his watch, and says, “I should probably get going.”

“You don’t have to leave if you don’t want.”

He pauses and then grins. “It’s getting late.”