21. Use sound safety protocols.
22.No sex.
23. No sexin the apartment.
24. Don't leave your clothes on the ground.
I stared at the newest rule Gemma had added to our absurd list. Taking an earthy-sweet sip of my mushroom coffee, I tamped down a smile. We had made the rules two Sundays ago, starting with several contradictory, crossed-out "rules," and it had only gotten more ridiculous as time went on. No sane roommates would follow a list like ours, but it had become a way for us to communicate with each other without actually having to gripe at the other person directly. I glanced over at the mess I'd made putting together my morning coffee and sighed. Gemma had a point. I often focused more on the problems in my head than what was going on with my environment. Why waste time tidying up when I had an emergency surgery to get to?
But I had a roommate now. As improbable and often uncomfortable as it was, I had to share my space for the time being. And Gemma liked things tidy. I could try harder to accommodate that. Setting my mug down on the counter, I gathered the cream and sugar to put them both away.
I glanced at my smartwatch. Any minute now, Gemma would make her way to the kitchen. She tended to stumble out of bed and get ready fast before going to work, and I didn't know how she did it. She stayed organized even when she was rushing. Not a cup left on the counter. Not so much as a Q-Tip on thebathroom counter. Where I left a trail of disorderly mess behind me, she seemed to float through her existence like a carefree, squeaky-clean bubble.
Sure enough, Mini scratched at the door moments before Gemma burst through it, leash between her teeth and her bright yellow jacket half-on over her crop top and sweats. She wasn't wearing a bra again, and I caught a flash of round, full breast beneath the hem of her crop top as she reached up to shove her arm through the other sleeve of the coat. I inhaled sharply, coiling tightly from the inside out. This woman never fucking wore clothing at home, and this wasn't the first time I'd gotten a glimpse of her breasts, her hips, her legs, her ass. She seemed completely unaware of what she was doing to me.
Not that seeing a woman's body had to necessarily turn me on. I was a healthcare professional. There was no reason that seeing Gemma's nipples through her nightshirt or walking into the kitchen to find half her ass hanging out of her shorts should affect me.
Only, it did. There was something about Gemma that got pastallmy barriers and turned me into a barely leashed, hormonal teenager again. The errant desires and mental pictures would come out of nowhere—mental videos of bending her over the sofa, wrapping her soft skin in hemp rope until she moaned, holding her in the shower and sinking myself into her slowly…
They were driving me absolutely crazy. So, naturally, I did what I did best.
I ignored it.
"Issthoo dark," she slurred through the leash in her mouth.
I picked up my mug and sipped, staring. "What?"
She pulled the pink leash from between her teeth before clicking the latch to Mini's collar. "It's too dark! I keep sleeping in."
I glanced at the clock. It was 6:46, which was later than usual, but not too bad. "You seem high-strung."
"Your DNA is high-strung," she retorted, barely sparing me a glance. "I'll be back." She paused at the elevator to point to me. "You better be out of the shower when I'm back, Fudgecake."
I glared hard. "Stop calling me that."
"Oh, do you need me to workshop it?" she asked with a sharky grin. She stuffed her feet into her tennis shoes while she teased me over her shoulder. "What should I call you? Fudgie? Dreamscicle? Ooh," her lashes flared as she pressed the button on the panel. "Cakepop."
"You are not calling me Cakepop," I said dismissively.
Her only response to that was an evil cackle before she abused the "down" button inside the elevator with several, impatient jabs. My phone buzzed, reminding me that I had limited time to shower and get ready for my own appointments today. As I took out my phone and headed to the shower, I pulled up short.
The contact on my screen surprised me. Both because of who it was and because it appeared to be some kind of group chat.
Frost:
I've been informed that our moms are trying to get us married. And Rook fell into a trap. FACT CHECK?
Spencer:
I met the trap. She's really cute.
I frowned at the screen, walking into the bedroom again as I tapped out a text.
Rook:
We are not referring to Gemma as "the Trap." Who gave Frost my number?
Also, how was there a "we," here? Why was Frost worrying about my personal life? We'd done our residency together with Spencer, and our mothers were friends, but we didn't interact much outside of work. Had our moms been talking? Dread pulled the blood from my face. Had my mothertold them?
