Jock Royal (Jock Hard 4)

Georgie laughs. “Plenty of blithering imbeciles walking around campus. Not your fault.”

It’s not, but…

“What are you working on?” I blurt out, despite the fact that it’s obvious she’s not working on anything, just tinkering on her mobile.

“Eh, nothing really, just looking at Instagram. I have to shower.” She lifts her arm and smells her pits, something I’ve seen lads do but never a girl.

I must look appalled because she begins cackling out a laugh.

“You should see your face. Oh my gosh, it’s hilarious.” More laughter. “I’m sorry, that was bad manners, but I couldn’t resist.”

I scoff. “I don’t judge anyone for their breaches of etiquette—I just can’t help the fact that I’ve had deportment drilled into me from the womb.” That sounded so fucking stuffy. “Try being on the rugby team surrounded by Neanderthals. You sniffing your pits is nothing—I watch blokes walk around naked scratching their nut sacks on the regular.”

Should I have said that? Was that crossing a line?

I’m trying to treat her like a lady but also my roommate, and the line is confusing. She’s not one of the guys, but we’re also not romantically involved so I don’t have to impress her.

But.

I want to.

Damn if I don’t.

“Are you hungry? I have a rotisserie chicken in the fridge from yesterday that’s still good—you’re welcome to it.”

Georgie leans back, resting against her bed. “That does sound good. I think I’ll take a shower before I eat, then hang out downstairs.” She looks up at me from the floor. “Wanna watch a movie or something?”

“Yeah, I could do that.”

She pokes her mobile with the tip of her finger. “It’s almost seven…let’s meet on the couch in forty-five minutes?”

“Cool.”

Cool?

I have got to get back to Britain—I’m losing the one and only edge I have over these American blokes: class.

Georgia isn’t wearing anything revealing when she comes back down to the den; in fact, she’s essentially wearing what amounts to a paper sack. Or scrubs.

Baggy.

Loose.

Worn and ratty, even.

Fine, so maybe baggy and ratty is a bit uncharitable—but the point is, she isn’t trying to impress me or lure me by putting on an outfit that’s sexy or revealing.

She does look cute though.

Real cute.

Gray university sweatpants. Red track and field t-shirt from her old school. Bare feet.

Hair piled on the top of her head in a messy bun.

I busy myself on the couch unfolding the blanket, all the while sniffing the air for traces of fresh shower and body spray.

She’s still wet.

Her hair is wet, I mean.

When she’s seated on the other side of the couch, I toss her the remote and tell her she gets to choose the show; we watched what I wanted to Saturday, the night she moved in, the one and only time we’ve watched the telly together.

Georgia holds the remote up, pointing it toward the TV, biting on her bottom lip.

“I’m not sure what I’m in the mood to watch. How about a thriller? Wait, no—that might give me nightmares.”

On she goes, flipping through the menu of regular channels. Clicking over to cable, then to the subscription accounts.

She settles on a movie that was just released, still hedging, not wanting to choose something that’s a stinker, something I’ll hate and give her total shite about later.

Which I will if it sucks.

We settle in, all the lights off downstairs except the one above the stove, the room taking on the feel of a small theater.

I put my feet up on the ottoman.

She puts her feet up on the ottoman.

I have a blanket. She has a blanket.

It’s all very cozy and oh so platonic.

The movie she’s chosen is fine; if we’re being real right now, I’m barely paying attention. I’m thinking about rugby and the match we just lost, the shitty way I played—which is unlike me—the call from Dad about Jack and how he’s faring at the office.

My parents are nagging me about when I’ll be home, pushing me to get on a flight as soon as graduation is over and start the life I’ve been bred to live.

Every day closer we get to graduation, the inquiries increase.

Mostly Mum.

Dad cares, but he’s got his head buried in too many social functions and work to ride my arse about it like she does.

Not much either can do all the way from jolly ol’ England; it’s not as if they’re hopping on a plane to help me pack my shite, either. If they intend to drag me home immediately at the end of the semester, they’ll have to work a bit harder for it.

It’s not as easy to ignore Georgia sitting there, looking quite fetching in her attempts to be camouflaged. She’s even wearing a bra, which hasn’t escaped my notice.

Who wears a bra when they’re home in their pajamas?

Not that I know anything about women and their nocturnal habits, but aren’t undergarments uncomfortable? Don’t women usually tear them off as soon as they walk in the front door?