My brothers roommate, p.8
My Brother's Roommate, page 8
I close the pantry door with a frustrated groan. Why haven’t I asked any of the easy questions?
For example, what’s your favorite color? What’s your favorite movie? If you pretended to be a girl’s boyfriend for a weekend to impress her boss, what would you want her to cook you as a thank-you? You know, the usual stuff.
I reach for my phone, hoping that something in our texts will give me some sort of clue. Has he at any point even hinted at a food he likes? Or mentioned what kind of takeout he was ordering?
It takes all of ten seconds to scroll to the top of our existing conversations without finding anything helpful.
Well. That did approximately nothing.
I pocket my phone, trying to refocus on the pantry instead of the taunting green numbers on the oven clock. It’s six fifteen, only forty-five minutes until Wolfie arrives.
I guess I could call Connor and ask him what his roommate’s favorite foods are, but that would be opening the floodgates on a million and one questions, none of which I have an answer to. Because the truth is, aside from eating whatever it is I finally decide to cook, I don’t know exactly what’s going to happen with Wolfie tonight.
If it were only up to me, we’d be finishing what we started at the lake house before we were so rudely interrupted by my brother. But with Wolfie, there are no guarantees. Only hopeful expectations. And tonight, what I’m hoping more than anything is that he’ll open up to me more. If this dinner snafu has taught me anything, it’s that there’s still a lot for me to learn about this man.
Just when I’m ready to throw in the towel and order a pizza, I spy two boxes of penne tucked in the far back of the pantry.
Thank God. Everybody likes pasta. And if they don’t, I honestly don’t trust them. I bring a pot of water to a boil on the stove, then locate all the ingredients in my fridge for homemade alfredo. And what kind of monster doesn’t like alfredo sauce?
By the time the glowing green numbers on the oven flash seven o’clock, the sauce is simmering on the stove, the table is set with wine, bread, and two plates of penne. Not bad for a last-minute dinner date. It takes a few tries to get my smart speaker to respond to me, but soft acoustic music eventually fills my tiny apartment, setting the perfect mood.
That mood is instantly interrupted, however, by the motorized buzz of the intercom, announcing Wolfie’s arrival. Just the sound of it makes my stomach go full track-and-field star and high-jump into my throat.
Jeez. I guess I was too busy feeling frustrated about dinner that I hardly noticed how on edge my nerves have been.
With a deep breath, I press the button to buzz my guest in and try to tamp down the jitters in my belly. Moments later, I hear the muffled trudge of him coming up the stairs, followed by three quick knocks at my door.
“Coming!” With one last check of my reflection in the microwave, I head for the door and let him in.
Maybe it’s the way his coat is zipped all the way up to his chin to block out the cold, or maybe it’s the mysterious soothing effect those stormy eyes have on me. But one look at Wolfie standing in my doorway and everything—my nerves, my frustration about cooking dinner, all of it—instantly tumbles away. As for Wolfie, when his eyes meet mine, his usual scowl gives way to the barest hint of a smile.
“Since when does winter start in November?” he says, shuddering for effect.
“Since forever. This is Chicago.”
I slink away from the door frame and he follows me inside, careful to take off his snowy leather boots while still on the welcome mat. God bless him for that. I just cleaned these floors. Under his coat, he has on dark-washed jeans and a soft-looking gray sweater with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows. It’s precisely the same shade as his eyes.
“Smells great in here.” He slings his jacket over a free hook on my coat rack, scanning my apartment with curious eyes. “Looks great too.”
“Thanks. I hope you like pasta.”
He lifts a brow. “Doesn’t everyone like pasta?”
“My thoughts exactly.”
As I lead him into the kitchen, he continues to take in his surroundings, his gaze pausing on some of the more unique elements of my apartment—my antique bookcase overflowing with mystery novels, the stepstool I keep in the corner to help me change light bulbs and reach things on the top shelves. All normal, everyday things for me, but Wolfie looks at them like artifacts in a museum.
“This place is so . . . you,” he says finally, running his fingers along the label of my whiskey bottle turned flower vase. “Love it.”
“Then maybe you should come by more often.” The words tumble off my lips so naturally, I almost don’t realize how flirty I’m being. “I mean, you’re welcome anytime.
Wolfie smiles, his eyes meeting mine. “What’s on the menu for tonight?”
“Not whiskey, for once,” I tease, and it earns me one of his signature throaty laughs. “I made pasta. And there’s wine too. Although I’m not sure that rosé pairs with alfredo, but it’s all I had.”
His eyes narrow, one dark brow arching toward the stove. “You made homemade pasta sauce?”
“Of course. I couldn’t invite you over for a home-cooked meal and serve you something out of a jar.” I gnaw on my lip, readying myself for his usual biting commentary, but instead, his mouth pulls into an easy smile.
“Damn. You’re fucking cute.”
Holy crap. Never has my heart squeezed so tight as it did at the way he said that, so plain and straightforward, like he was stating a matter of pure fact. The sky is blue, water is wet, and Wolfie Cox thinks I’m fucking cute.
Maybe tonight will go the way I want it to after all.
With plates in hand, I lead Wolfie to the stove to serve himself the sauce. While I watch, he drizzles two big spoonfuls onto his pasta.
“You’ve been hiding the fact you can cook from me. This looks awesome,” he says with a smile.
I grin, then do the same, ladling sauce onto my plate before joining him at the table. We easily fall into comfortable chitchat, discussing something idiotic my brother did at the store today, the conversation naturally shifting toward the topic of work.
“You should’ve seen how busy the store was today.” Wolfie pierces a penne noodle with his fork, shaking his head in disbelief. “I haven’t seen it that packed since we first launched the Joie de Vivre.”
“What’s the Joie de Vivre?”
“Our bestselling couples’ vibrator. Patented design. They fly off the shelves.”
I gulp down the urge to ask him if he’s ever tried it. Or better yet, if he’d like to try it with me.
Easy, Penelope. One thing at a time. He’s not as casual about sex as you are.
“Forget about me, though,” Wolfie says, interrupting my train of thought as he lifts his wineglass. “Congrats again on your big news today.”
Although I’m skeptical about toasting a promotion I haven’t secured yet, I clink my glass against his. “I hope we’re not jinxing it,” I murmur into my wine as I take a sip.
Wolfie scoffs. “No way. Not when Spencer already jinxed it for himself by being the world’s biggest douche.” He pauses to taste his wine, then adds, “That is, assuming he hasn’t surprised us all by pulling his head out of his ass.”
“Oh, rest assured, he has not. In fact, just wait till I tell you what he did today.”
I launch into the story of today’s office nightmare, in which Spencer took full credit for a project I slaved over for weeks. As I dramatically reenact our meeting with David, I worry that I’m rambling, but Wolfie seems interested, nodding along and wincing at all the cringe-worthy parts.
“If that jerk doesn’t get the ax when you get this promotion, I swear,” he mutters once I’ve finished the story. “Sorry you have to deal with this shit.”
“All thanks to nepotism,” I say with a sigh. “There’s a lot David is willing to turn a blind eye to. So we’ll see how things shake out.”
Wolfie’s chin dips in a firm nod. “I look forward to hearing about it.”
“Yeah?” My fork clatters as I set it down on my now empty plate. “You don’t mind me yammering on about work?”
He shakes his head. “I love it. You care about it, and I like listening.” There’s a pause, then he adds under his breath, “Especially to you.”
We lock eyes, and my breathing stalls. Every fiber of my being is urging me to lean over the table and kiss him.
But would that be too much? Or worse yet, would it not be enough? There’s a very real chance that if I kiss him again, I’ll just want more. And I’m not sure he’s ready for that yet.
Before I can make up my mind, Wolfie breaks our gaze, pushing up from his chair. “Can I get started on the dishes?”
I audibly sigh. “Sure.”
Never in my life have I been so disappointed to have a man volunteering to do chores.
We spend the next half hour working in tandem to get the kitchen clean—him washing dishes, me drying them, then both of us finishing what’s left of the rosé. When Wolfie rises from the couch, saying something about it getting late, I know I have no choice but to buck up and broach the subject.
“Before you go . . .”
I reach out to stop him, my fingers brushing against the crook of his elbow. He freezes, pivoting back toward me, but I keep my hand there. I want to touch him. Even if just like this.
“Can we talk about last weekend?”
He swallows hard, his eyes darkening before he averts his gaze. “What do you want to talk about?”
“You know. What happened between us. I just want to be sure you don’t, you know. Have any regrets.”
He’s quiet for too long. I can sense him shrinking away from me, pulling back.
Is he ashamed? Or worse, is he going to pretend that nothing ever happened?
The longer he stares at the floor, the more I feel like I’m about to break. But then a low, breathy chuckle comes out, and he slowly shakes his head, raking his fingers through his chestnut-brown hair.
“I don’t regret any of it.” The words are directed at my kitchen tile at first, but then his eyes meet mine, a spark of something warm and genuine dancing in them. “Not a single thing.”
Relief rushes through me at a dizzying speed. “Really?”
Wolfie shifts closer to me, his fingers brushing my hair behind my ear, then slowly tracing down my cheek. “Yes, really.”
He trails a thumb along my lower lip, then leans in and presses a kiss there instead. Then another. And another.
Soon, I’m lost in him again, pressed up on my tiptoes, reaching for every bit of him he’ll allow me to take.
11
* * *
WOLFIE
When it comes to women, not much comes naturally to me, but kissing Penelope feels like second nature.
The moment her mouth meets mine, my hand curls possessively around her hip, and the other weaves into her soft blond waves as her tongue flirts with mine. It’s pure instinct, as natural as breathing. And I’d like to do it just as often.
My fingers trace the soft, silky fabric of her dress as I deepen our kiss, nipping and sucking on her lower lip. She tastes sweet from the rosé. I could get drunk on this girl in a hurry, if I’m not careful.
Penelope hums her approval against my lips. With one hand planted against my chest, she presses even higher onto her toes, trying to close any remaining distance between us.
Our height difference doesn’t do us a ton of favors in terms of kissing standing up, which of course gives my dick the brilliant idea that we should be lying down. In her bed. Where I could strip her out of that dress and give every square inch of her the attention it deserves.
We’ve done this before, at the lake house. Why not give it another try?
Just as I’m warming up to the idea, her fingers trail down my chest, lingering on my zipper. Clearly, we’re on the same page here.
But when my cock bobs in my jeans, urging me to take things further, it’s like the blood stops pumping in my veins. A familiar and unwelcome zing of panic pulses through me, and I stumble back, breaking away from her touch.
Penelope’s eyes widen and she gasps with surprise. “What is it? Did I do something wrong?”
“No, it’s not you. It’s . . .” I cut myself off mid-sentence. Was I really about to cite the oldest fucking line in the book? It’s not you; it’s me. This girl doesn’t need my clichés, not even if they’re true.
“Look, I’m sorry, I just . . .” I shove a hand through my hair, staring unseeing at the kitchen floor. I should say something. I owe it to her to say something. But the alarm bells going off in my head won’t even let me form a coherent sentence, so I keep my mouth shut.
“You just what?”
Her tone is patient, not at all demanding, but I still feel put on the spot. When I finally have the balls to look at Penelope, her usual clear blue eyes are clouded with pain. Pain that I caused.
“Nothing. It’s fine,” I manage to say on a slow exhale.
Shit, I’m not even convincing myself.
Penelope’s full lips part on a shaky sigh, her eyes desperately searching mine for the explanation that I’m not ready to give.
“Wolfie . . . you can tell me.” She takes one hesitant step toward me, and I flinch back, keeping my distance. “Remember at the lake house? You told me so much, but if there’s something else . . .”
Slowly, she reaches for my arm, but I pull away again, out of her reach.
I can’t do this. Not now. Not with her.
“I have to go.” The words cut through the air, clean and sharp. Final.
I turn, avoiding eye contact as I hurry toward the door, then shove my arms into the sleeves of my coat as I step into my boots, not even bothering to lace them up. I don’t have the time. I need to get out of here.
“Wolfie, please.” Penelope pleads, following a few steps behind me. “Please stay. We don’t have to do that. You can talk to me.”
Her words hit me like a sucker punch to the gut, but I don’t so much as turn around to acknowledge them. Instead, I pull open the door and hurry down the stairs, stepping back into the biting early winter air.
The wind stings my cheeks, but I can’t help but feel like I deserve it, both for letting things get so far with her and for bailing with no explanation. I don’t know which is worse, but I do know that if I stuck around and took things further, I’d just be setting her up for even more pain. She’s better off with me gone.
I hop on the train and ride it past my usual stop, all the way down to my favorite stretch of bars. Nothing sounds better right now than being one of hundreds of faceless, drunken strangers in a crowd. Plus, whiskey tastes better when someone else pours it for you, and I sure as hell need a drink.
My go-to spot is more packed than it should be on a weeknight, but I slip the bouncer a twenty, and in seconds I’m inside. Money talks, and I’ve got a few more bills in my wallet that are calling out for a Jameson neat.
Shouldering through the crowd, I make my way to the bar and manage to claim a free bar stool. I’ll take it as a sign that I’m supposed to be here, drinking my problems away with some shitty club soundtrack in the background. If only I could find whoever’s pouring the drinks down here.
My gaze travels down the bar and over a dozen unfamiliar faces, each of them laughing and sipping something strong. Eventually, I find my target, a guy dressed in head-to-toe black, taking an order from a dark-haired girl in a red dress.
Wait a second. I know that girl.
Suddenly, my mouth feels like the fucking Sahara Desert.
It’s Tessa. I haven’t spoken to her since I shut her down via text during Penelope’s work retreat. Apparently, I’m staring a little too long, because her gaze meets mine and recognition flashes.
Shit. I could have looked away and played dumb, but it’s too late now.
She mutters something to the bartender that I can’t hear from this distance. Moments later, she’s sauntering my way with a glass of Jameson and the kind of smug smile that irritates the hell out of me.
“Long time, no see.” She slides the glass across the bar and straight into my palm.
Lord knows she’s the last person I want to see right now, but I’m not turning down free booze, even if it is compliments of an old hookup.
“Hey, Tessa,” I choke out. My grip on the glass tightens, and I knock back half of it in one swallow, letting the familiar punch of heat hit my stomach. It feels good in the worst way.
“You haven’t been out lately.” She props her elbows on the bar in a way that’s clearly intended to showcase her tits.
“I’ve been busy.”
“Too busy for me?” She bats her thick black lashes at me, jutting out her lower lip in a pout.
I’m not dignifying that with a response. As I stare into my whiskey, she wiggles in closer until we’re inches apart, close enough that I can smell the whiskey on her breath.
“Listen, Wolf. Let’s cut to the chase and get out of here.” She trails her fingers from my shoulder to my bicep. “To your place?”
I can’t shake her hand off me fast enough. “We’re not doing that anymore, Tess.” I look up from my glass in time to watch her lips pull into a tight frown.
“Why not? We had fun, didn’t we? Why not have fun again?”
She squeezes my thigh under the bar. I have no choice but to physically lift her hand from my leg and move it away.
“I said no, Tess.” My tone is firmer this time.
She scoffs and rolls her eyes at me. Luckily, she doesn’t have a drink in her hand, or she might have thrown it in my face. But before she walks across the bar to flirt with the next unlucky bastard, she can’t help but get in the last word.
“There’s something wrong with you.”
Her words sink into me like teeth. She’s right. But she doesn’t know the half of it.
Gulping down what’s left in my glass, I flag down the bartender and get myself another Jameson, this time on the rocks. I need to slow myself down somehow, and the ice should keep me from tossing the whole thing back. But no amount of drinking could make me forget Tessa’s words.
