Chapter 33
LOREN
There’s been a development!!
Megalodon
!!!
“And then, we fell asleep on the couch together.” I still can’t believe I woke up with Elliott’s arms wrapped around me. I haven’t fallen asleep with a guy like that since high school.
Meg swirls her fry in the ketchup on the corner of her plate, leaning forward as she listens intently to my story. “No way.”
“Yes!”
“And then what happened?” Rebecca asks, stealing a fry for herself.
“Well, nothing. I had to pee and when I got back from the bathroom, he’d gone to his own room.”
“Oh.” Her fallen face matches my own.
“But it was so romantic.”
Meg takes another fry, but this time foregoes the ketchup. “I don’t know. Sexy Scrabble followed by The Notebook feels like it should lead to more than nothing.”
“He could be wanting to take it slow.” And slow is my jam. We can be snails for all I care as long as we end up at happily-ever-after.
Pins crash in the background and then a cheer erupts from the next lane over. Sounds like someone got a strike.
Rebecca bounces a little on the plastic chair. “Did he say that?”
“Well, no…”
“Loren.” Meg takes me by the shoulders and turns me in my chair, our game forgotten in lieu of this very vital conversation. “You know I love you, right?”
Of course she loves me, and I love her right back.
I’m starting to love Rebecca too, but that’s still new.
Meg’s sigh floods my stomach with dread. “You do this though, don’t you? You thought you and… your ex were more than you were.”
Thank goodness she caught herself before saying Josh’s name. That’s a conversation I’m still not prepared to have with Rebecca.
“Is it possible that you’re seeing what you want to see and not what’s really there?” Meg asks.
I mean, yeah, it’s possible. But Elliott was supposed to go out and he cancelled his plans to stay and hang out with me. That has to mean something, right?
Rebecca leans back in her own chair, the embroidered name on her shirt peeking from behind her folded arms. “Did you ask your roommate about it this morning?”
“He was already gone when I woke up.”
Her lips purse. “That’s not really the behavior of a doting suitor, is it?”
Dammit, she’s right. If Elliott was actually interested in me, he would’ve at least stuck around for breakfast, right?
Meg gives my shoulders an encouraging squeeze before letting her hands fall. “I say this because I love you. But you deserve someone who chooses you, who makes it clear that you’re his priority. Not another dipshit who makes you question everything.”
Her words make sense even though I hate them. If I’m ever going to get out of this situationship slump, I’ve gotta stop jumping to conclusions and live in reality, no matter how much it sucks. “How did you become so wise?”
Grimacing, she stabs her fry into the ketchup. “Let’s just say, I’ve dated a lot of dipshits.”
Elliott isn’t in the apartment when I get back from work.
So here I lay, sprawled on the couch, swiping away my misery on the latest dating app in search of someone who isn’t a dipshit. I hear his keys in the door, and when he steps inside, I offer a polite hello, but don’t bother looking up from my phone.
The girls and I have concluded that I fell victim to his hypnosis.
If I don’t look him directly in the eye, he’ll eventually lose power over me.
Elliott nods, then heads into the bathroom, coming out ten minutes later smelling like soap and fresh laundry. Meanwhile, I still haven’t budged.
He putters around the kitchen, opening and closing the fridge before meandering over to the living room with a bottle of water in hand. “Why are you panned out on the couch, staring at your phone like it holds the secrets to the universe?”
If only that were true. “I’m reminding myself there are other fish in the proverbial sea.” After my chat with the girls tonight, it’s clear I’ve been trying to squeeze my heroic roommate into a category where he most certainly does not fit.
It’s time to get out of my own way and find someone who’s actually interested in me.
Elliott catches me by the ankles, lifting my legs so he can plop down on the cushion. I probably should’ve forced myself to move. This is his couch, after all. But I’m wallowing.
It’s not that I miss Josh. I miss the idea of Josh and mourn the loss of the beautiful life we could’ve built together.
Elliott settles my legs over his thighs and leans in close enough that the soap he used distracts me.
What is that? It’s plain and clean and I kinda want to lick his neck to see how it tastes.
But I’ve tasted soap before—the one time I cursed in front of my mother—and it was terrible.
So I imagine the taste won’t live up to the smell.
“By trolling dating apps?” he scoffs.
That’s right. Loren Piper is officially online. I don’t even waste money on the subscriptions. I just lay here swiping and hope someone finds me.
“Let me see that.” He snags my phone before I can stop him. “Seriously? This guy looks like a twat.”
What is he, British now? “No, he doesn’t. He looks nice.” And he even has a puppy. Animal lovers make great boyfriends—or so I’ve read. Josh didn’t have any pets.
Then again, neither does Elliott.
Elliott throws an arm over the back of the couch. “That’s what I said: twat.”
“Give me back my phone. Don’t—”
It’s too late. Elliot has already swiped the wrong way, eliminating my chances of ever finding love with William, 27, from Franklin.
Elliott snorts. “Oh yeah. Definitely a tool bag.” Swipe. “Come on.” He flashes me a photo of a guy in a black beanie with his nose and lip pierced. I’ve gotta admit, he’s pretty hot in a dirty sort of way. Not dirty like he doesn’t shower, but like he has a thing for having sex in public.
I’ve never had sex in public or kissed a guy with a lip ring. Could kill two birds with one—
“Toolbox,” Elliot mutters, swiping to the next contender.
Okay. Guess that’s a “no” on Mr. Lip Ring. “What’s the difference between a tool bag and a toolbox?”
“You don’t want to know. Oh, this guy. He looks okay.”
“Really? Let me see.” I sidle up closer, peering over his shoulder at my own screen.
The man has pretty blue eyes and a nice smile.
Although I would think the strip club in the background would be a red flag.
Interesting that Elliott approves of him.
It’s hard to judge someone based on a photo.
Maybe he doesn’t realize it’s a strip club. Or maybe they know each other.
“Just kidding. He’s a ghoster for sure.” Off he goes, swiping to the next man.
“Really funny.” As entertaining as this game is, he obviously doesn’t realize the point is to make a match and meet people. “Give me my phone.”
Does he listen? No. Instead, he angles the screen toward me. “This guy definitely wants in your pants.”
Swipe. Swipe. Swipe.
“If you keep going at this pace, there’s going to be no one left!” I grab for my phone again, but he decides to be an ass and hold it above his head. I twist around, kneeling on the cushion next to him, flailing for my damn phone.
Elliott goes still.
This is when I realize that he is eye level with my boobs.
And he is definitely looking.
I chose today of all days to not wear a bra, which means my nipples are currently screaming, “HERE I AM! PUT ME IN YOUR HOT MOUTH.”
While he is sufficiently distracted, I manage to retrieve my phone. He doesn’t even try to fight, just lets the thing slip from his fingers.
When he speaks, his voice is three shades darker than before, as are his cheeks and ears. “Why don’t you go out to a bar and talk to guys like a normal person?”
Oh, gee. Why didn’t I think of that? “Because guys who pick up girls in bars are creepy.”
“And guys who hide online are all pillars of virtue.” He rolls his eyes and reaches for the remote as I settle back into my spot to keep searching for my soulmate.
Elliott doesn’t even finish his sentence before I stumble across a discovery of epic proportions.
No freaking way. What a hypocrite. “I don’t know. You look virtuous to me.” I smirk down at my phone. Elliott smiles right back.
Not the real Elliott, mind you. That Elliott is scowling and clearly confused.
“Elliott Grant, thirty-two, lives in Mount Juliette.” I steal a glance at his deepening scowl. “Likes dogs, mint chocolate chip ice cream, and texting late into the night.”
His shoulder bumps against mine as he scoots so close our thighs press together, looking over my shoulder to see my screen. I could’ve shown him, but then I would’ve missed out on getting another good whiff of that soap.
Nothing is going to happen between us, but that doesn’t mean I can’t sniff the guy every now and again, does it?
“What the hell?” His hand comes over mine, angling the screen toward himself. I don’t notice for the billionth time how big those hands actually are. Nope. Not at all.
“I’ve never been on a dating app in my life.”
“This picture of you says otherwise. Oh, look! There’s more.” Swipity, swipe, swipe. “Uh, oh. Shirtless. Big red flag.”
But also, can we take a second to appreciate exactly how many abs this man has? Right now, they probably smell like soap. Is there any non-creepy way to ask him if I can see them again?
No. Probably not.
Although we are living together so chances are I might be treated to another peek at some point.
One can only hope.
Elliott groans, dragging a hand over his face. “Fucking August. I sent that picture to show him what his dog did to me. Left a scar and everything.”
As if he heard my internal struggle, the man—bless his generous soul—hikes up his shirt and sweet saints above, all I can see are ridges and the thinnest trail of dark hair disappearing into the waistband of his black basketball shorts.
When I saw his abs the last time, I didn’t fully appreciate the perfection, but now…
I mean, anyone who looks at this man would know he’s fit, but holy cow. Those abs are still there when he’s hunched over on the couch. How is that even humanly possible?
“See?” he demands with righteous indignation.
Oh, I see, all right.
He taps his side.
Sure enough, a long silver scar runs down the length of his torso.
“I told him to get his damn dog’s nails trimmed or I’d do it myself.”
Mmmhmmm. Dogs. Nails. Abs.
So many abs.
I force my gaze back to my phone and swipe right for shits and gigs. “Oh, look! We matched!” A zesty little thrill tingles in my stomach.
His dark eyebrows slam down. Unfortunately, so does his shirt. “How is that possible?”
Okay, at first, I was skeptical, but now I genuinely think Elliott might not have been behind this dating profile. Am I disappointed? Sure. Not as disappointed as I am about the abs being gone. Wonder if he’d notice if I screen-shotted this picture…for posterity.
“Maybe August went through and liked everyone. I bet you have a ton of messages.” If I came across his profile, I’d think he was too good to be true. Yeah, showing off the abs is a little douchey, but those abs would be worth at least a first date.
His gaze flies up to meet mine. “Really? Shit. How do I find out?”
The eyes, Loren! Don’t look directly into his eyes! I drop my gaze back to my phone. “You’ll need to log into the account.”
Man, would I love to peek behind the curtain at what women send to men like Elliott. I mean, I know the kinds of messages I get (unsolicited dick pics are gross), but hopefully the fairer sex has a bit more class.
Elliott slides his phone from his pocket. “That fucker. I’m going to get him back for this.”
Maybe it’s because I’ve been duped recently, but I have to ask, “You really didn’t make this profile?” Why would anyone go through the hassle of creating a fake profile, even as a joke, especially since Elliott had no idea it was even there?
He looks appalled. “Absolutely not. And mint chocolate chip? I fucking hate mint chocolate chip.”
“You could probably press charges. I’m pretty sure making a fake profile is illegal.”
“And make the holidays awkward? My mom would never forgive me. No, this calls for something better.” The wicked curve of his lips sends my stomach into a nosedive. “Revenge.”