Jock Royal (Jock Hard 4)

Why.

Why did he have to go and shave?!

Blissfully unaware that my insides have gone completely haywire and batty, he smiles, a dimple flashing in his right cheek.

Gap in his teeth winking.

One dark eyebrow devilishly rising.

Oh my god, Georgie, look away.

LOOK AWAY.

I don’t look away.

I look at his legs, propped up on the ottoman before us. The thick bulge of his athletic thighs. The t-shirt pasted to his hard chest.

His damp hair sticking this way and that, as if he just ran his fingers through instead of a brush.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuckity, FUCK!

Is the universe kidding me right now?!

I bite into a carrot—a carrot that essentially gets lodged in my dry throat, my ability to swallow completely gone.

The carrot is loud.

“Taste good?” he asks, chuckling in the dark room.

“Yeah?”

Another chuckle. “Sounds like it.”

Oh my god.

Shoot me now.

I have nothing to say to that because there may be drool coming out the side of my mouth, mind going in a billion BILLION different directions, wondering how on earth I’m supposed to spend the rest of the year shacked up with this…this…

Hottie.

Like, I noticed he was cute.

That’s a given.

Maybe it’s the way he smells—the fresh woods and whatever body wash he must have used permeating clear across the couch and up my nostrils like Pepé Le Pew in a Warner Brothers parody, and if my ass wasn’t planted on the couch, my feet would leave the ground to follow the smell.

“What are you watching?” There. That sounded normal enough, tone even, eyes to the front of the room.

My voice didn’t even crack—high-five!

“Nothing really, just a documentary on race car driving.”

Inwardly, I groan.

“Do you want to watch something else? We can change the telly, I don’t mind.”

I sneak a look at him while he hands me the remote, eyes scanning his forearm: the tattoos covering his skin, the bicep full of color.

Swallowing, I clasp the remote in my hand and settle back against the cushions, self-conscious about the fact that I’m wearing pajamas with no bra—not that he’s glanced at my body.

Not even once.

Still, it feels vulnerable being alone in this house with him wearing just clothes intended for bed.

Clearing my throat, I glue my eyes to the television screen; it practically blinds me with its size, giving off so much light I squint toward it. The room is dark, but the TV is hella bright.

I point the remote at the TV, arm suspended in the air.

Pull it back so I can stare down at it, learning the buttons. It’s so different than mine and I… “Have no idea how to work this. What do I push if I want to find the guide?”

“You push guide.”

Ah. Duh.

I scroll through the shows, not really finding anything I like, then hit exit, settling back into the documentary about car racing, tossing the remote onto the center of the massive couch, between us.

“We don’t have to watch this,” Ashley offers again.

I yawn. “No really, it’s fine. I’m content just sitting here resting. I’m exhausted.”

Exhausted but not quite ready for sleep, I tip my head back against the couch cushions and watch the story unfolding on the screen in front of me—the documentary Ashley was so interested in when I busted in with my dumb bag of carrots and stupid peanut butter that I can no longer eat because they’re loud AF.

Get over it, Georgia. He doesn’t care.

And if he does, he’ll make fun of you for it.

This isn’t a guy I need to worry about; I don’t have to worry about how I look—he’s going to see me looking my worst in the mornings.

I don’t have to worry about going to the bathroom—I can take a poo in my own bathroom and he never has to smell it.

I don’t have to worry about chewing too loud, or eating too much, or looking cute while I’m doing it because he has no interest in me anyway, nor I in him, and even if I did…

Roommates don’t date roommates.

That’s gotta be a rule somewhere…

It’s around eleven o’clock when his phone rings, and I half expect him to decline it but he takes it instead, lifting the phone to his ear with a smile.

“Hallo, Mum. Why are you up so early?”

Hallo, Mum.

Ugh, that accent.

I pretend not to eavesdrop, but it’s impossible—he’s four feet away.

“You’re what? Doing a fitness bootcamp?” He pauses for a few minutes, head slowly nodding. “Are you cracked?” Then, “Sorry, Mum. I shouldn’t have said that. I meant, are you mad?” Another pause. “Bootcamp? With who?” His mother speaks on the other end of the line and he listens. “Uh-huh. Yeah.” More silence. “Engaged? They’ve only been together six months.” He’s quiet. “I know but…six months? Be real.”

She must be lecturing him because then he says, “I know, Mum, when you know you know, but he’s twenty-four for bloody sake. The last time I saw Alfie Langley he was taking a piss off the bridge at the Townsman Arms he was so plastered.”