CHAPTER EIGHT
CASEY
“There we go,” I murmur as I zip up the last suitcase and push it under the bed. “Home sweet home for you. For the next couple of months at least.”
I lean back on my heels, looking around the room.
I’ve spent the morning getting settled into the spare room at Griffin’s house.
It didn’t take long for me to move in, since I don’t have much here in Bayshore.
It’s certainly nice that my car doesn’t look like I operate a Tupperware business out of the backseat anymore, or a used bookstore.
Now I could even give a friend a ride if they needed one.
But the truth is that I don’t plan to use my car much this summer.
Not when the couple-mile bike ride from Griffin’s house to the bar is so enjoyable this time of year.
I’ve gotten all my clothes neatly arranged into the dresser. On top I’ve stacked my emotional support pile of books, which, as usual, is far too many. I think I unpacked more books than anything else. But I need to have a variety on me at all times. It’s a requirement for my well-being.
Just like my little purple satin bag, which I tuck into the drawer of the nightstand.
The contents of that bag won’t be used until later tonight, and I couldn’t be more excited.
I need to let off some steam in the worst way.
My infatuation with Griffin is growing to dangerous levels.
When he came into Brews last night, I thought I’d cry from excitement at spotting his broad shoulders at the end of the bar, those gray-blue eyes already waiting for mine.
And coming to support me on my first day at a new job?
Just marry me already, Griffin.
But those aren’t things you say to your old friend…remember?
I push the thoughts out of my mind, realizing I have to pee. Badly. I’ve been so focused on my task that I forgot about bodily functions. I crack open the bedroom door just as the bathroom door opens. A puff of steam escapes, followed by Griffin.
Shirtless. Damp. With just a towel cinched around his waist.
My entire being constricts into a trembling kernel of need, and I’m pretty sure my vocal cords evaporate.
I can see a gold chain around his neck, lying against his perfectly sculpted chest. My gaze travels the hills of his biceps, the grooves of his washboard abs.
His hickory hair is tousled and damp and ready for me to run my fingers through it.
I don’t think he realizes I’m peeping his bathroom-to-bedroom journey, because he disappears wordlessly into his bedroom across the hall, and the door shuts behind him. I’m left gaping at the memory of his athletic physique, my bodily functions forgotten once more.
I move slowly toward the bathroom. And then the cologne hits me. Or the bodywash. Or whatever heavenly combination of manly scents Griffin applies daily. My eyes flutter shut as I bask in the lingering steam and scent of him.
I have to live with this man for the next nine weeks and somehow not mount him like a horse and ride him until the saddle falls off, as the heroine of my recent cowboy romance novel would say.
The door clicks shuts behind me, and I take a deep breath. I can do this. I can co-exist with a sexy man and not beg him to fuck me into quivering oblivion. I can.
I use the bathroom quickly, trying to calm my racing mind. Because suddenly, I feel so very dumb.
Whose bright idea was it to say yes to his offer when I’m kinda sorta falling in love with my new roommate? I loved him from afar during high school, and apparently all I needed to kick the ol’ love engine back to life is a week or so of hanging out and one half-naked glimpse.
There’s only one thing worse than falling for a man you can’t have.
Being his roommate and seeing his half-naked body all the time.
Great.
I head into the kitchen, intent on making lunch. I don’t know what to do with my attraction. I want to put it somewhere else, outside of my body, but that’s not possible. It lives inside me where it will slowly consume me like a flesh-eating virus.
Yet the attraction serves no purpose, because I’m so laughably out of his league. I’m pretty sure that if I told him I had feelings for him—which I would never do—he’d laugh and pat my head and tell me to save up for Chicago. If anything, he sees me like another Piper. Just a sister and friend.
I’m ruminating on the pointlessness of physically reacting to Griffin’s hotness when I hear his bedroom door open. When I look up, he’s coming toward me in workout shorts and a sleeveless tee—his favorite outfit. And mine.
“Sup roomie?” He’s running his hands through his hair, and for a moment I can’t rip my gaze off his fingers caressing those barely-there waves. I’m dying to touch his hair for myself.
“I’m making us lunch,” I blurt, arranging eggs and vegetables on the counter. I must not look at his hair again. Or his body. Or any part of his face or his eyes. “Because I want to be a good roomie.”
“Well you’re doing a great job already.” He slides onto a barstool facing the kitchen island, settling in to watch me work.
“Thanks. I’m trying.” In the milliseconds of silence after my words come out, doubts crowd my mind.
A million worries elbowing for attention prompt me to add, “We should talk about ground rules, right?” I keep my focus on the ingredients and the cutting board.
“I’m just so worried you’ll hate me by the end of the summer. ”
He laughs softly. “I promise I won’t hate you.”
“You don’t know that. I’m messy in the bathroom.
Actually, I’m messy everywhere. Including my life, as you’ve already witnessed.
I just want to be transparent and…” I take a deep breath, Claire’s words from the other day ringing in my ears: You’re such a hot mess Casey.
Working at a bar, living under your parents’ roof at age thirty.
Come on. I finally dare to look at him. “I don’t plan on taking advantage of your generosity.
I’ll clean up after myself. I’ll help cook meals.
I’ll load the dishwasher. If you’re lucky, I won’t even need you to drive me to my trapped car in the farmer’s market again. ”
Griffin nods, his gray-blue gaze so intense I almost need to look away. “Sounds great to me.”
“And I won’t…bring anyone over.” I nearly mumble the last words, because I’d rather avoid the topic altogether. I’d never assume I could bring a man into his space, but little does he know I want zero men. Except for him.
His brows draw together. “Like…friends?”
“No, like…friends.” I clear my throat. “Of the nighttime sort.”
Realization crests his face, along with something else. Distaste, maybe? Whatever it is, I hurry to clarify.
“I wouldn’t even invite people we both know over unless you explicitly give me permission.”
He scratches at the back of his neck. “You can invite people over. Just as long as they’re not…” When he seems to be struggling for the word, I prompt him to continue then he coughs it up. “Jake.”
I’m touched that he’s so loyal to me that he hates my ex. This is the type of ride or die bestie a girl needs in her life. “If I ever invited Jake over here, you’d have permission to admit me into a mental institution.”
“That sounds like a deal.”
“God, you’re so easygoing,” I pretend to complain, reaching for my last item on the agenda, a small white envelope I left on the counter. “Here, be easygoing about this. Take it, please.”
Griffin peeks inside the envelope, spots the cash in there, then shakes his head. “Nope.”
“It’s only five hundred,” I say. “I just guessed, because you won’t set an amount.”
He slides it my way. “Save it.”
I sigh. “For Chicago, I know.” I snatch it up and stick it in my back pocket. “I’ll get this into your hands one way or another.”
“You won’t.”
“Then I’ll get your mom to steal your bank account information for me so I can renegade deposit it.”
He snort-laughs. “Good luck with that. Don’t you know the old saying? I’m rubber and you’re glue. Whatever money you send bounces off me and sticks to you.”
I send him a sharp look. “Pretty sure that is about calling people names, not sending rent money, but whatever.”
We make easy conversation as I prep omelets for us. When they’re ready, I plate them, but something is niggling at me at the back of my mind.
“Here’s yours.” I hand him the plate, and he smiles down at the food, nodding.
“This looks like a great appetizer.”
That’s when it hits me. Our portions are the same. The man eats like a walrus and I served him the equivalent of a handful of guppies.
“Oh my god. I forgot about the twelve thousand calories a day that you need.” I slap my forehead, turning for the fridge. “How many more should I make. Three? Four?”
“None. Let’s eat.”
He nods toward the breakfast nook, and I carry my plate over. We dig in, and he hums appreciatively as he eats.
“Fuck yeah, cheese and eggs,” he says. I giggle into my palm, savoring the view of him enjoying my food.
“Sorry for the paltry amount,” I say. I’m maybe a quarter of the way through my food and he’s on his second to last bite.
“This was so fucking good, Case.” He polishes off the eggs and gives me two thumbs up. “Ten out of ten would eat again.”
“Thanks for pumping up my basic omelet,” I laugh. “Next time I won’t feed you like we’re rationing food for a war or something.”
“I’ve got protein shakes. Don’t worry about me.” Griffin pats my shoulder as he carries his plate to the sink. “I’ve gotta run to Cleveland. I’ll see you later?”
“Yeah, I’ll be around. Probably reading, not gonna lie.”
I’m waiting for a groan or a crack about how boring the plan is. Instead, Griffin says, “That’s hot. Bye, Case.”
He’s out the door then, leaving me in a cloud of pleasant confusion.
“Is that ‘hot’ like you want to have sex with the book nerd or ‘hot’ like Paris Hilton says it?” I murmur to no one in particular.
It doesn’t matter. It’s safer to assume that Griffin sees me as the last thing I want to be to him: a sister.
I don’t know what it’s going to take to convince my head or my heart to get over this infatuation with Griff.
I don’t want things to get weird between us, but knowing myself, they surely will.
As I finish my breakfast, my mind wanders, fixating on the least likely scenarios and all manner of what-ifs.
Brains are a wonderful, terrible creation, and mine loves to circle the drain on any negative or heart-wrenching possibility out there.
I begin to imagine what my life will be like if I can’t find a new marketing job in Chicago by the time I move back in August. When will my savings run out?
What if my recent layoff taints my career forever?
And how on earth could I even jumpstart my love life if I’m jobless or severely underemployed?
Forget going out and getting to know people.
Do I even want to jumpstart my love life?
In my mind’s eye, I see Griffin.
He’s the only thing I want to jumpstart—or jump on.
But now that I’m living with him, I feel more compelled than ever to keep that boundary secure. He’s being a good friend; he does not want me to lust after him like some desperate nymph.
Which means I need to be a good friend to him. Helping around the house, supporting him when he needs it, quietly ignoring whatever hookups he happens to bring home.
A sick shudder rakes through my body.
There’s only one thing I’m dreading more than dealing with my sister’s snark all summer long, and that’s witnessing the first of Griffin’s hookups parading through this house.
It will happen. It has to. The man couldn’t stay celibate if he tried, from the sheer number of willing women who are drawn to him like a magnet.
I might even climb his bones once I get to my own ovulation window, because those muscles are a siren song no woman can resist. He must need to shoo away the willing playthings with his hockey stick.
He could block traffic with lusty puck bunnies.
Casey. Finish your omelet and go read.
I come up for air from my Griffin spiral, not liking the weird knot in my gut or the fact that my chest is all tight now. The spiral is proof that Chaotic Casey is still at the wheel.
Like always, I’ve made a decision that seems sound but is actually pushing me into chaos. By agreeing to live with Griffin, I’ve set myself up for failure, and I’ve barely even started the summer.
But does it have to be a failure?
I can be his friend. I can restrain myself. I can do this.
Chaotic Casey might have gotten me into this situation, but I’m dead set on making sure she doesn’t drive the metaphorical car of our summer straight into a dumpster.