The Bookworm's Guide to Flirting (The Bookworm's Guide 3)

“Ugh.” I groaned and rolled over in bed. A chill ghosted over my nipple, and I glanced down sleepily.

Yep.

My boob was right out.

That was what I got for sleeping in a tank top that was one size too big.

Actually, it’s what I got for sleeping in a tank top in general.

I reached over to the nightstand and felt about for my phone. Something brushed against my finger and the following sound was a clunk that I just knew was my phone hitting the carpet.

Ughhh.

I stretched down and retrieved my phone from its hiding place between the nightstand and my bed. The roar of the shower erupted from the bathroom, and I knew instantly it was the ass-crack of dawn.

That was when Dylan took his showers.

A glance at the screen confirmed the time. It was barely seven-thirty. Early for me, late for him. Had he—gasp!—had a lie in?

I doubted it. He’d probably already run three miles, the weirdo.

I really should have vetted my roommate a little more before I’d agreed to let him move in, but what can I say? His accent was distracting.

I got out of bed and put both my boobs back in my tank top. Yes, they were both out, nipples standing to attention like those little flags people put in newly discovered lands. It was ridiculous, quite frankly.

I pulled on a fluffy sweater so there was little chance of them taking Dylan’s eye out and headed out of my room, yawning. He was still in the shower, and I didn’t smell coffee, so that was my first move.

Fire up Cora the Coffeemaker.

No, really.

Her name was Cora.

My friends were not as funny as they thought they were.

I hit the button to turn her on—ah, if only it were that easy in real life—and pulled a mug down from the shelf. If I was going to be awake this early, I was going to need some caffeine to get me through the day.

It was a wonder I owned a business. Honestly. I’d hate to work with me.

In my defense, I was usually up reading. It really wasn’t my fault I had a lot of respect for a good book and absolutely none for sleep.

I blamed my mother.

She was the one who let me read by flashlight when I should have been asleep as a kid.

Ah, like hell did I blame her.

When I had kids, I was going to do the same damn thing.

One did not take a book from a reading child.

One let them read until three a.m. and then judged them the next day, knowing full well they’d do the same thing that night.

I knew that because that was exactly what my mom had done when I was a kid.

I filled the cup as high with coffee as I could get away with before I needed to add cream, then checked the level of the water on the electric kettle Dylan had accosted my kitchen counter with.

It was huge and ugly and made a horrible noise whenever he boiled it which seemed as though it was twenty times a day. I was pretty sure that if he were to cut himself, tea would come streaming out of his veins.

Oh, don’t look at me like that.

I’m not being stereotypical. If I was doing that, I’d tell you he talked like Prince William.

And unless good ol’ Wills swore like a sailor, I doubted that was true.

Besides, he’d already told me that my blood wass probably made of coffee. Coffee and sarcasm with a dash of Chenin Blanc.

Can’t say he’s wrong.

Hey—wine, coffee, and sarcasm. There were worse things a girl could be made of.

Like sugar and spice and all things nice.

I’d never been nice. Or sugary. And as for spice… Well, I liked to think I was a cayenne pepper kinda girl.

Or, you know.

A Carolina Reaper.

“You could have boiled the kettle for me, love.”

I turned around and peered at Dylan. He was wearing nothing but a blue towel wrapped around his waist. His hair was still dripping with water from the shower, and it went the only place it could.

His abs.

His annoying, toned, straight-out-of-a-romance-novel abs.

“Dylan, we’ve talked about this. I’ve asked you not to walk around naked.”

“I’m not naked.” His lips tugged to one side as he and his abs came closer and he flicked on the kettle. “I’m wearing a towel.”

“A towel is not clothing.”

“I didn’t know you were awake. Isn’t it early for you?”

“Practically the middle of the night,” I confirmed. “Can you please put some clothes on?”

“Why? Is it bothering you that I’m not wearing any clothes?”

Yes.

Yes, it was.

“No, I just think it’s polite to wear clothes in front of your roommate. Your female roommate. Who doesn’t need your towel to slip this early in the morning.” I sipped my coffee. “I thought the British were polite.”

“I didn’t know Americans were prudes,” he replied. “I thought that was what you thought about us.”