Jock Royal (Jock Hard 4)

“Yes.”

He waits patiently for more information, and when none is forthcoming, he prompts me. “And?”

He’s worse than a girl!

“And…they’re fine with it. They had nothing to say about it.”

“Nothing to say about it.”

There he goes, making questions into statements. “Nothing.”

“Why?” Suddenly, Ashley rises from the couch, pushing himself up to grandstand, twirling in a circle. “I’m one hundred eighty-seven centimeters—a strapping lad. They’re not worried?”

“Worried about what?” I feign ignorance.

I know exactly what he’s talking about; he wants me to tell him how big and scary he is and how terrified my parents may be that I’m living with a giant lummox of a male.

“This!” He gestures up and down his body with his hands as if presenting himself as a top prize.

“What about it?” I take a carrot and stick it in my mouth, mostly so I don’t bust out laughing. He’s trying so hard to be a badass.

He flops back down. “What kind of parents aren’t worried you’re living alone with a man?”

A man.

I laugh, chewing.

He scowls.

“They trust me, and therefore, they trust you.” Pausing, I think back to the conversation he just had with his mom. “What did your mom say when you told her your new roommate is a girl?”

That trips him up. “Nothing.”

Liar! She definitely had something to say about it because if I remember correctly, he told her we met at a party and had a class together, then he said he wasn’t dating anyone—then he looked over at me and said, “Yeah, she is.”

She is WHAT?

“Mum had nothing to say about it either.”

“Nothing at all?” I roll my eyes. “Then what had she asked when you replied, Yeah, she is?”

Ashley snickers. “You little eavesdropper.”

He’s right.

I’ll never let it go.

I shrug, having no comeback. “If you wanted privacy, you should have left the room.” I pronounce it prih-vuh-see. “What did she ask?”

He looks at the television, giving that his attention, trying to ignore me.

“Come on, tell me!” I throw a pillow because I’m a girl but also acting like a child, throwing a mini tantrum to get what I want.

“What’s stopping me from lying and just making something up?”

“You’re too honest for that.”

“Fuck. You’re right.”

I raise my brows. “So?”

“Why do you care? The conversation was ten minutes ago.”

Because she asked him something about me and he said, “Yeah, she is,” and I want to know what it was.

Is she single? Yeah, she is.

Is she smart? Yeah, she is.

Is she a hard worker? Yeah, she is.

So many possibilities—I want to know which one!

“She asked if you were attractive and I said yes.”

Except that one.

That I did not see coming.

“Oh.”

Attractive.

Is that British speak for cute? Or pretty?

Or hot?

Ashley hmphs, unresponsive, crossing his arms and staring back at the TV, carrot sticking out of his mouth like a cigar.

The point is, he thinks I’m attractive.

And he admitted it to my face.

Calm down, Georgia. He was making conversation with his mother; she asked him a simple question and he answered, and it’s not as if you’re a troll.

I am cute. I am pretty.

I am attractive.

Somehow, though, it feels like a small victory.

We sit in silence for a few more minutes until I lose interest and stand, excusing myself for bed with a yawn. Checking the kitchen door to make sure it’s locked and putting away the plate I used for my snack, checking the front door to make sure that’s locked, too.

“No one is going to break in,” he calls from the den.

Hasn’t he ever heard of college students getting shit-faced and walking into the wrong house?

Trust me.

It’s happened.

In my room, I’m finally ready for bed and flop onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling with the lights off. Only my phone lights up occasionally with a text from Nalla or Priya, who’ve been asking about my day all day. How it went, what Ashley’s like so far, if the house is clean, blah blah blah.

A note from my mother, who’s checking in on me and wants me to call her in the morning.

Through the pitch-black darkness, I stare, rolling over to face the door, phone on the nightstand.

It pings again, lighting up, and I reach for it, expecting one of the girls.

It’s not.

It’s Ashley.

Ashley: Are you still up?

Me: Yes? What’s up…

Why is he texting me when he’s only just down the hallway?

Ashley: You tired?

Me: Um. Kind of? But I’m excited I get to sleep in tomorrow.

No practice on Sunday, obviously.

Ashley: Should we do something?

Me: Uh—like what?

Ashley: I don’t know, I was thinking we could go hiking. The Ice Age Trail in Dunhaven.

Is he serious?

Hiking is my favorite.

Me: That sounds fun.

Ashley: Cool. It’s supposed to be nice out, not hot, so we don’t have to rush out in the morning. We can get coffee and breakfast on the way out of town.

Me: Cool.

God, now I’m repeating what he said.