Jock Romeo (Jock Hard 6)

“Let me see.”

I don’t mind letting her look, especially since piecing everything back together was a lot of work—I don’t mind showing it off to her.

I’m shocked, however, that Kaylee made no comment when I mentioned Eliza and Jack.

See, the three of them have a history, and not a positive one.

I mentioned a few times that Eliza used to be my roommate; well, Kaylee is the reason she’s no longer living in this house. Kaylee is the reason we have an empty room. Some people might blame Jack and Eliza—they began liking each other when Kaylee and Jack were talking.

Never fooled around or anything, had never even gone on an official date. But Kaylee met him first and befriended him first and had a crush on him first—which means she automatically considered him…hers. She found him so no one else could keep him.

The night she found out Eliza had befriended Jack, things went downhill, and shortly thereafter?

Our trio became a duo.

Carefully unfolding the newly repaired trophy, I set it down gently in the center of my desk, aware that my roommate is sometimes critical of things she doesn’t understand.

As if on cue, she wrinkles up her nose.

“What on earth is that supposed to be?”

“Judging by your tone, I gather you aren’t impressed with my skills.” I laugh, wiping a smudge off the center name plate.

“Um, maybe I’d be impressed if I knew what it was.”

“It’s an award he won for a scholarship—a very prestigious scholarship.” Pride laces my tone for a guy I’ve only just met, and I feel strangely protective.

“It looks fancy. Is it for like, yachting or something?”

Wow.

Not even close.

“No, it’s an academic scholarship. He won a semester at Cambridge University in England.”

Kaylee is also not impressed by this information.

“Oh, so he’s a nerd?”

A nerd?

What is she, ten?

“I wouldn’t call him a nerd. He won this because he’s smart.”

Smart may be putting it mildly; I have a suspicion Roman is actually brilliant and was downplaying the significance of his award. I did a little bit of digging while I was researching photographs of the award online to get an idea of how to reconstruct it and discovered very few college students in the United States receive the honor.

If no eligible applicants apply, there have been years no one has won it.

Furthermore, it’s not easy to gain entrance into Cambridge.

Like, at all.

I take offense at Kaylee’s criticism and comments about Roman and bristle, straightening my spine.

What an asshole.

I say none of these things out loud, because pissing her off has consequences I’m not in the mood to deal with—those or the bad attitude that usually follows. So I zip my lips and study the trophy anew.

It shines like a disco ball, and while I love it and think it turned out great, he’ll probably be horrified by the shininess. Then again, perhaps he’ll also love it in its new form?

One can hope!

“You made that?” Kaylee’s voice is laced with disdain—it sounds as if she’s eating a sour lemon.

I shake my head. “I didn’t make it. I just told you—it broke and I’m fixing it. He dropped the box it was in and it shattered and I felt absolutely terrible.”

“Is this a guy you’re interested in? Do you like him? As more than a friend?”

Is she serious? I just discovered my boyfriend of four months was cheating on me and she honestly believes I’m going to put myself back on the dating market so soon afterward? I’m beginning to think she doesn’t know me well at all.

“No, he’s just a really nice guy.”

She considers this, and I know doing something nice for someone for no reason and getting nothing in return is a difficult concept for her to understand. It’s not a concept she is used to.

“So you don’t want to date anybody?”

I’m failing to understand how, from her perspective, me fixing this jazzy award and turning it from nothing back into something is somehow me wanting this guy to take me on a date.

Not to judge her, but she has led a charmed life; she’s a very spoiled person, and I want her out of my room. Taking the towel I had the trophy wrapped up in, I spread it back out on the surface of my desk then gingerly lay the award on top of it and fold it like a burrito.

Or a swaddled baby.

Back in the box it goes, away from her perusal.

I make a show of putting on my sneakers and shrugging into a hoodie, grabbing my car keys off of the hook near my door. “I think I’m going to run this back over to him. The glue is dry enough, and I can’t wait for him to see it.”

“Whatever floats your boat.” She gets one last word in before disappearing down the hallway and retreating to her own bedroom.