Ugh!
Nova snorts. “You’re being so dramatic.”
“False. I’m being self-preserving,” I argue, pointing a very serious finger at her. “I cannot live under the same roof as that man. I had my hand on his thigh on the way here and it was rock hard.”
She laughs and I follow her to the bar, weaving through the rooftop crowd until we find a small standing table.
“So soon? It’s been thirty-six hours.” She hands me a drink that the bartender has already prepared. “Tell Mama Nova everything.”
I take a long sip of whatever pink cocktail she ordered for me and press the chilled glass to my cheek hoping to cool the hormonal wildfire raging inside me.
I fan my face dramatically. “We werestackedon top of each other in the Uber here. There was no room to breathe. None. At one point I literally put my hand on his leg. My hand was on hisknee. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Whoa.” Nova’s eyebrows shoot up. “On purpose?”
“Of course not on purpose!” I whisper-shriek, scandalized. “Do I look like someone whoplansto grope their hot-ass roommate in the back seat of a moving vehicle? I had to grab onto something and thatsomethingjust happened to be his very firm, very muscular quad.”
Damn does he have great legs.
Nova takes a slow, dramatic sip from her cocktail, lips pursed around the little black straw. “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you right now? Because I don’t.”
“I blacked out for thirty full seconds.” I hold up my hand like it’s contaminated. “I can stillfeelhis thigh through my palm. It’s like a ghost imprint. A phantom quad.”
She snorts at me. “Please.”
“What am I supposed to do now?” I wail, dragging my fingers down my face. “How am I supposed to sleep knowing thathisbedroom is six feet from mine? That those legs—those thighs—are just on the other side of the drywall?”
Nova contorts her face. “Um… like a baby?”
I groan and chug what’s left of my drink. “You are zero percent helpful.”
We both glance across the rooftop, past strings of twinkling Edison bulbs and clusters of beautiful, overdressed twenty-somethings all here to flirt, pose for Instagram stories, or find someone who looks good naked.
And then there’sthem.
The guys.
Luca. Turner. The rest of their alarmingly athletic crew, loitering like they’re about to shoot a craft beer commercial. Each of them is tall, broad, and built like the reason your ex still stalks your Instagram stories. They’re laughing, sipping whiskey, throwing back their heads like life has never hurt them. They look unfairly good.
Not trying to be noticed.
Except everyone here has noticed them.
The young women congregating around the bar? Staring.
The waitress? Has circled their area three times.
“Damn, that’s a good-looking group of men.” Nova sighs dreamily. “Luca gets me so wet, I swear. All I have to do is look at him and my uterus bursts into confetti.”
“Please don’t say ‘uterus confetti’ while I’m this vulnerable.”
She laughs. “I speak the truth.”
But I’m not looking at Luca. Not even a little.
My eyes—like the absolute traitors they are—zero in on Turner.
Quiet. Broody. Solid. His arms are crossed, his jaw locked, like someone just told him his favorite team lost and puppies aren’t real. He’s not laughing like the others.
