7. Jess
Jess
Ever been on TikTok? It’s not for the faint of heart, let me tell you.
I have lost actual days to TikTok, and most of them have involved a rollercoaster of emotions.
I’ve learned how uncool the crying with laughter emoji is, why my skinny jeans are no longer in fashion, and that I should basically just dig myself a hole and bury myself in it instead of even trying to be relevant.
In the app’s defense, however, I now know how to make great feta tomato pasta.
And so, with that one little glimmer of cheesy goodness keeping my spirits high, I continue watching videos on the app. Repeatedly.
But, on my first sunny morning back in the ATL, there are only so many TikTok videos I can watch before my curiosity gets the better of me (Eighty-seven, in case you’re interested).
I slide out of my deliciously silky sheet cocoon, then crack open Aiden’s bedroom door. I was in such a deep sleep last night that a tornado crashing through the house probably wouldn’t have woken me. And so, I have no idea when—or if—Conor came home.
I lean through the doorway, poking my head into the hall. No footsteps. No music. No clinking of pots and pans. And thankfully, no sign of Mindy. The house is deadly silent... but my nose perks up at a tantalizing aroma in the air.
Freshly brewed coffee.
My kryptonite.
I dither in the doorway for a moment, torn between my need for caffeine and the knowledge that my hair usually looks like I've been electrocuted first thing in the morning.
I don’t really want Conor to see my scarecrow hair and regret texting me. Not that I care about Conor texting me , I remind myself sharply—between Mindy and Marla, he’s already got his hands full of women.
It was nice of him to put a halt to Mindy’s third degree, though.
And his texts made me laugh. A lot.
I step back into Aiden’s room and close the door.
The only reasonable thing to do is to go full “I woke up like this.” You know, that age-old con beloved by women everywhere—the one where you spend hours getting ready in order to look effortless.
Then, at the first compliment you receive, you shrug it off, looking innocently at your carefully chosen outfit to say, “whaaaaat? This old thing?”
I’m only making myself look presentable so Aiden’s totally-out-of-my-league friend doesn’t think I’m a total disaster. That’s all this is.
And so, I spend the next several minutes rushing through a frantic hot wand styling session, while watching a YouTube tutorial on how to apply as much makeup as possible to make it look like I’m wearing none.
Then, I slip into my cutest loungewear (so basically, not the giraffe onesie or stained UGA Bulldogs sweatpants I usually favor).
When my hair is finally somewhat tame, I step out of Aiden’s bedroom and stride down the hallway.
I turn the corner and the kitchen is bathed in a pool of golden morning sunlight.
It’s strange that I’ve been here less than 24 hours and feel more at home at Aiden’s than I ever did in my own apartment in New York.
Conor is sitting on a stool at the island and, unless Mindy’s hiding out behind the sofa, he’s alone. He’s sipping coffee and reading something on his phone, his workout shirt accentuating his broad, muscular shoulders. Mmm.
He turns around. Raises his eyebrows. “Mmm?”
Every drop of blood in my body rushes to my face and I panic. Did I really say that out loud? What is wrong with me? This one’s on you, brain.
“Don’t you mean, ‘good morning, roomie?’” Conor continues, his lips twitching.
“I mean… mmm, coffee. That’s it. I love the smell of coffee,” I blurt in a sudden fit of inspiration.
Phew, nice save. Not obvious at all.
Conor’s lips stretch into a lazy smile. “I take it you slept well?”
“Like a baby.” I reach into the cupboard and pull out an oversized novelty mug that declares “World’s Okayest Brother” (a delightfully thoughtful Christmas gift from myself to Aiden last year).
I help myself to coffee, take a huge gulp, close my eyes, and say “mmm” again loudly. Just to reiterate my point.
“Thanks for the caffeine.” I smile, leaning my elbows on the island. “How was your night?”
“Fine.” Conor shrugs. “In all honesty, though, I’m not big into going out anymore. I prefer staying in.”
I peer at Conor for a moment, my breath catching. This man just keeps saying the right things, and a statement like that is 100% my love language. The way his shirt is hugging his biceps doesn’t hurt, either. Although, he probably wore that shirt on purpose, just to show them off.
“You were so quiet, I thought you might still be sleeping. Or, that you might not be home yet,” I say and take an innocent sip of coffee.
Am I digging? Ah, who’s to know.
Conor’s eyes crinkle at the corners, and I’m suddenly glad my elbows are supporting my weight so I don’t topple over in a Jane Austen-worthy swoon.
“I was being quiet on purpose so I didn’t wake you,” Conor says. “I felt bad for texting you so late when you were tired.”
I’m so lost in his green eyes that I respond before I think. “Yeah, and it wasn’t even an emergency.”
Conor raises his eyebrows a touch and I curse my big mouth—WHY would I say that? I’m sure I meant it to sound flirty. I wanted to go for round two on our back and forth banter. Instead, I made it sound like I don’t want him to text me.
I want to file a petition to retract my statement. Claim temporary insanity.
But, before I can do any of that, Conor grins again. “Would you prefer I didn’t text you in non-emergencies, then?”
I shake my head a tad too eagerly, and his grin stretches.
“Text me when you need me,” I say flippantly. “But, I’m very busy and important, so I’ll get back to you when I can.”
“Busy...and...important.” Conor mimes writing something down. “Got it.”
The twinkle in his eye catches me off guard and I shift. “And don’t worry about waking me in the mornings, I sleep like the dead.”
“Also noted.” Conor quirks an eyebrow at me. “Anything else I should know about my new roommate? Allergies? Medications? Exotic pets?”
“Nope, nope, nope.” I laugh and point to the Tupperware container on the island. “And it’s just me and Fernie. You?”
“Just the one pet alligator. Her name’s Susan.”
He’s joking… I think.
“What about you?” I decide it’s best to ignore Susan and any questions surrounding her existence for the time being. “Anything I should know?”
“Well.” Conor leans forward conspiratorially, and a lock of that thick, golden brown hair falls over his forehead. His eyes glint with mischief. “I’m pretty wild when it comes to scheduling.”
“Color me intrigued.” I mirror his movement reflexively. The man has a magnetic field, I swear. “Want to fill me in on this out-of-control schedule of yours?”
He laughs that rich, throaty laugh. “I’m a creature of habit. I meal prep on Sundays, vacuum on Mondays, clean the bathrooms on Tuesdays. Wednesday is laundry day and Thursday is garbage day.”
His eyes are sincere, and I’m reminded of how he scrubbed the hallway yesterday before I could even get to the mess. He’s serious.
Whoa. A neat freak who has a designated day for each household chore. Why is that so sexy?
Maybe because I’m the type of gal who never remembers to do laundry, resulting in frequent panicked rummages through my laundry basket to find socks.
“Well, either you are exceedingly OCD by nature or a woman has trained you well,” I joke, expecting him to laugh.
But Conor’s expression flattens, and the sparkle in his eyes dims.
“Something like that,” he says, then gets to his feet. Like he’s preparing to leave.
Shoot. Obviously, my comment touched a nerve. What if he actually has OCD and I just made fun of his medical condition?
“Do you want breakfast?” I ask quickly, hoping it’s not too obvious that I’m trying to find a way to backpedal right out of that four-lane tunnel I call a mouth.
I watch his expression carefully, and I’m relieved when he smiles. He gestures to his outfit. “I have work at noon, I was going to go for a run first.”
“A run!” I practically yell. I’m so delighted that he’s not leaving because of my dumb comment that I can’t control my decibel level, apparently. “Yes, of course!”
“You want to come?”
“Hahahahaha.” I’m not really sure why I’m laughing. Hysteria, maybe. “A run? I don’t really run. My car barely even runs half the time.”
Good grief.
Conor pokes his tongue into his cheek and smirks. His ocean green eyes sparkle in this spine-tinglingly devious way that makes me a bit seasick. I turn my head and chug on my coffee, letting it scorch my throat.
“I can take a look at it for you,” he says.
I bite my lip. “You can?”
“Sure. I’d be happy to.”
I smile flimsily. It’s nice of him to offer, but there’s the teeny, tiny issue that there’s actually nothing wrong with my car. Save for the broken AC. I think fast and change the subject. “You cook dinner, make coffee, and fix cars for all of your roommates?”
His smirk morphs into a cheeky grin. “Just the pretty ones.”
A glow spreads from the top of my head down to my toes, and I clench my fists to stop my arms from doing an impromptu happy dance.
Conor thinks I’m pretty? No, he’s just being nice, I’m sure.
Trying to make me feel better about my recent breakup.
Aiden probably asked him to be extra sweet to me, or something.
“Is there anything you don’t do?” I keep my tone light, like I’m joking around.
But I’m serious. As a heart attack.
“Breakfast.” He winks. “I don’t do breakfast.”
And with that, he gives me a little wave, puts in his airpods, and heads for the door.
Touche, flirtypants.
* * *
Conor goes off for his morning run (why couldn’t I have been born with a gene that makes me want to hurl myself down city sidewalks in the name of health and fitness?), and I return to Aiden’s bedroom.
Never one to waste my hair and makeup efforts, I dig through my suitcase until I find a prim, white blouse and black slacks.