16. Ella #2
Instead, I was remembering the shiver rolling through me like a wave when he touched me, remembering aching for something more .
I still didn’t know who it was. Who touched me so brazenly, so surely, and possessively, like they had every right to do so.
Could it be? Could it have been my newly acquired, reclusive roomie?
Ha. Yeah, right. This was me trying to convince myself of something that wasn’t there because apparently I had the hots for him. Totally ridiculous.
He didn’t act like it was him. I mean, he’d barely looked at me back then. He barely did now.
But every time he spoke, my whole body went still, listening for the stranger’s voice, trying to compare them.
There was something in the way my skin tightened when he walked in a room. Not uncomfortably, but aware, like he was a magnet I was inevitably drawn to.
Shaking my head as if it would clear my thoughts and purge the memory from my mind, I breezed into the kitchen.
The room was only lit by the spotlights under the hanging cabinets, their soft glow so much more pleasing than the sharp glare of the overhead light.
A soft hum came from the dishwasher as I crossed the room.
Since I didn’t know where anything was yet, I opened a couple of cabinets at random and hunted for a decent-sized mug.
When I finally found the right one, I groaned upon discovering they were on the top shelf at the back.
I was tall, but this house seemed to be custom-built for someone of Hunter’s stature, because this cabinet was placed at an absolutely ridiculous height.
How the fuck did Hailey, with her five-foot-nothing frame, survive over here?
“Need help?” A smooth, low voice rang out from the door frame.
“Nope. I got it.” Stubbornly, I rose on my tippy-toes, stretching my arm as high as it’d go.
Hunter, apparently, did not take my word for it. His hand appeared in my periphery, moving at the same time as I hopped up to bridge the last missing inch.
Our fingers brushed, the barest of touches, and yet a shock of electricity raced up my arm. My breath stuttered before I could stop it, and he seemed to just freeze for a beat.
I glanced to the side, not expecting his gaze to already be on me. The gray irises pinning me in place, anchoring me to the spot.
Instead of the indifference I was expecting, I was hit with a fierce kind of intensity. Like he was ready to pry me open, to devour me.
I blinked rapidly, averting my eyes. Jesus Christ, I needed to get laid. I was getting delusional.
Could it have been him?
My mind immediately went into overdrive, connecting dots I hadn’t allowed myself to consider before.
When my eyes flicked back up to him, the faintest twitch of a smile played around his lips, as if he was in on a secret I hadn’t figured out yet.
I shifted a step to the side, turning slightly to face him, and reached for the mug.
Our hands brushed — too close, too deliberate — and sent heat straight through me.
Slowly, deliberately, he held out the mug to me, the muscles in his thick forearms flexing.
Goddamn. Maybe he’d let me lick them? Just for, like, a second?
“I don’t usually like people in my space,” he said, his voice low but calm.
No shit, Sherlock. Or was there supposed to be some kind of deeper meaning behind it? If so, I wasn’t fucking catching on.
“Good thing I’m charming as hell,” I joked, trying to shake off the tension I had no idea what to do with.
My heart was racing as I tried to play it cool, scrambling to find my footing again. Metaphorically speaking.
Why did you even say that? Was it too direct? Too flirty? Did he even care? God, why is my brain turning every little word into a whole conversation I’ll never have?
His response is a soft snort, followed by his gaze slowly dipping to the mug he was still holding out.
“Shit, sorry. And thank you,” I blurted out, finally reaching for it, our hands brushing once more. Deliberately or accidentally, I wasn’t sure, but it sent another shower of tingles through my arm.
His presence alone was enough to make my knees weak, my nipples tightening under my loose crop top. His unwavering gaze was focused on me, but then, quick as a flash, it darted down to the hardened peaks.
My eyes widened as I stared up at him, watching his throat bob and his jaw clench ever so slightly.
Well, well, well. Not so unbothered after all.
With one last piercing look, he turned and stalked out of the room.
I was frozen in place, my thoughts igniting like a wildfire, every rational plan smoldering in the heat of what just happened.
The thought of Hunter, my new roommate , being my mysterious little acquaintance was terrifying … and thrilling.
***
I lay in bed, in just my panties and a loose shirt — no socks, because socks in bed were fucking weird — luxuriating in the feeling of the softest sheets I’d ever touched in my entire life.
They smelled like lavender and my favorite detergent. A nice, familiar smell. Too familiar.
An old sitcom I wasn’t even watching murmured from the laptop beside me. To be honest, I’d probably seen this particular show about fifteen times.
I just hated silence, more than anything, and in this house, it felt like asking for a haunting.
Normally, the background noise helped in cutting off the never-ending train of thought chugging through my mind, but not tonight.
Did he buy the exact same detergent on purpose?
No. That was crazy. Right?
The screen’s soft glow flickered across the pristine ceiling, the room cloaked in shadows.
My brain refused to shut the fuck up, because of course it was, after all the coincidences of the day.
Then the sound of footsteps.
Slow. Controlled.
Normally, I would’ve missed those, too immersed in whatever I was watching or listening to. But not tonight. Tonight, I was hyperfocused.
They stopped outside my door.
My heart did this weird stutter thing like it couldn’t decide between panic and excitement.
I didn’t move. Just stared up at the ceiling.
The sitcom laugh track rolled on. The footsteps didn’t. There was no sound at all; nothing.
A full beat of silence. Then retreating steps, so quiet I might’ve imagined them.
Rolling to my side, my eyes squinted toward the crack at the bottom of the door.
Okay. So he either wanted to kill me or check on my bedtime.
Which, honestly? Kinda sweet.
I chuckled at my own thoughts before burying deeper into the blanket and muttering, “Creepy hot robot. Of course, I’d be into that.”
Because fantasizing about impossible guys was safer. Always had been.