“In a few,” she says. “What are your plans later? Natalie wants to know if she should pick up extra food after class.”
“Oh,” I frown, checking the schedule on my computer. Biology lecture. An initial meeting for the Prescott Hall piece. Another class. Then wrapping up newspaper articles due next week—sans Valentine’s Day feature. All before I have to rush home and get ready because… “I have a date tonight.”
Rylie’s eyes widen with interest. “Yeah? Who’s the lucky guy?”
I tell her about the photography major that approached me while I was out taking photos for The Weekly. We’d chatted over our preferences in equipment, and I’d let him take a peek at my most recent captures. After praising my technique, he’d asked for dinner and my number. He’s texted me several times since, and I imagine us ten years from now, unveiling a slideshow of cleverly shot images throughout our relationship at our engagement party.
“Well, good luck. I’ll tell Natalie it’ll be me and her tonight,” Rylie says. “Anyway, I’m really here to warn you that we have a guest. A male guest.”
“Just tell Levi to put a shirt on before you leave,” I snort, returning to the assignment my sister’s call had distracted me from.
She and Levi have been careful to tiptoe around me when it comes to their relationship. Not that it’s needed. I’m a wreck over my own heartbreak, I don’t begrudge them their honeymoon phase. Still, it’s nice not to be subjected to Levi Hart’s predilection for walking around half-naked. It’s February—has he not checked a calendar?
Rylie stalls, tapping a finger against the door jamb. It’s shifty enough that I stop typing.
“It’s not Levi,” she says.
“Then who is it?”
She bites her lip, a major tell for when she’s nervous. And I know exactly who is in my house at this very moment, without her having to say his name. She says it anyway.
“So, Spencer crashed on the couch last night.” She explains in the rushed way of speaking she has when she’s trying to get everything all out at once. I decipher that Levi had had to pick Spencer up from a party, where he’d been too wasted to make it home on his own.
Main Desire is a block away. Which is one of the considerations I’d taken into account while scouring off-campus rentals. Not only is our house in a location close enough to the English building for me, but it means Natalie is within running distance to her guy friends and Rylie can meet up with her boyfriend whenever she wants. It’s not a far walk.
So I know the true reason is neither boy wanted to deal with explaining Spencer’s drunken status to Morris.
“Don’t be mad, I warned you!” Rylie says when I stand from my desk. She waves goodbye and dashes down the hall to the stairs. I watch as she quietly sneaks down the steps, then I glare at the wall blocking my view of the living room. I shut my door, shaking out my hands to calm down.
This is fine. Totally fine. I can face Spencer Armstrong. In my house. Before I’ve had coffee.
I take stock of my appearance. My lumpy sweats and lumpier sweater. Thick wool socks. Hair unbrushed. Plastic retainer. None of it will do. I can’t have him seeing me like this, at my most vulnerable. My defenses down, open to his attack.
Besides, I need to get ready for class. I sift through my closet—coordinated by season, color, and occasion—and choose a knitted cream sweater dress and a pair of fleece-lined leggings.
I listen at the door, carefully turn the knob and open it before creeping to the bathroom. There, I change, brush my teeth, straighten my hair, and throw on some makeup. All while keeping an ear out for any noise from the floor below.
Nothing. Not as I dump my comfy clothes in my room. Not as I stuff my computer and textbooks in my bag. Not as I take the stairs two at a time.
A bulky form snoozes on the couch. Someone’s thrown a comforter over him. Spencer’s out like a light.
I should have known, based on his nap in Wednesday’s bio lecture. The professor had called his name three times before realizing the class would have to deal with the running back’s snores throughout the lesson. Why am I even trying to be courteous and quiet?
So I set my bag by the door, next to my boots and coat. Then I get to work in the kitchen, switching on the coffee maker and rattling mugs in the cabinet until I find the rainbow-sparkled travel one from Natalie. I look over the syrup flavors on the counter, unable to decide what I’m in the mood for this morning. Blackberry sounds good, but what to go with it?
My fingers stall on the raspberry label. I hadn’t gone with raspberry in a while, and with strawberry, it could make a berry-licious infusion. I debate, then put it back. It’d been Ashton’s favorite. And strawberry makes my mouth itch. I pick almond instead.
As the coffee brews, I hum to myself. I pour and mix and bring the final product to my face, savoring its decadent aroma.
It’s enough to lose myself in.
To forget I’m not alone.
But I’m not.
Because a hand snatches my mug right out from under my nose, and Spencer takes the first swig.
“Now that,” he says in a voice rough with sleep. “Is a cup of coffee.”
I’m prepared to scold. To give him a verbal smackdown including the definitions for ‘boorish’, ‘intrusive’, and ‘boundaries’. To dump the rest of the coffee pot over his head.
But all that turns to dust in my mouth when I come face to skin with his bare chest.
“Where is your shirt?” I snap.
He leans his hip against the counter. His temple twitches and he closes his eyes, the only sign he’d been out heavily drinking the
