Page 17 of Playing the Backbeat

“Help. I can’t stop objectifying you.” I hold up a hand to cover his perfect fucking body from my line of sight and look at the ceiling. “Please put a shirt on, you sweaty, sweaty man.”

“This old thing?” he jokes. “Okay, fine.”

“Thank you.” I drop my hand and watch as he tugs his white T-shirt over his abs.Goodbye, friends. I’ll miss you.

The smirk on his face is obnoxiously cute. “Did you need something?”

“I heard a lot of banging around. I was curious if you were installing a sex swing or a stripper pole or something.” I shrug. “Thought I could borrow them for some extracurricular activities. You know, sharing is caring and all that.”

He laughs that easygoing laugh I’ve come to expect from him.

“Sorry to disappoint, just my drum kit. He holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “They’re electronic, so there shouldn’t be a noise issue, but let me know if they bother you.”

“I knew you played drums.” I step into the room, reaching out to tap on one of the electronic pads. “I didn’t realize they made renter-friendly ones.”

“Yeah, my full set is stashed away in Dom and Ellie’s basement.” Along with everything else. He’s going to have to start paying them a storage fee.

“That’s kind of a bummer to have all that and not be able to use it.”

“Eh, someday when I’m not sharing walls with a scary, five-foot-nothing roommate, I’ll be able to keep them with me, but it doesn’t seem worth the present risk.”

“Can’t be too careful.” I fold my hands behind my back, suddenly stricken by a wave of nerves.

Don’t be dumb. Dylan has been your friend for years. We just share a kitchen now. No big deal.

“So, should we come up with some sort of list of bylaws?”

“Oh yeah. We’ll be needing those,” he agrees with a laugh before standing, striding past me with a wink, leaving me standing alone in his room. I follow him into the kitchen, caught off balance.

“I know it was my idea, but I’m having a hard time not being offended by your nearlyjubilantagreement. Do you expect me to be a shitty roommate?” I ask.

“Not at all. I just know you and I are experts at getting one another worked up.” He reaches on top of the fridge, pulling something down and shoving it into his mouth too quickly for me to see.

“What do you have there?” I nod toward the fridge.

The remnants of a chocolate chip cookie are stuck between his teeth as he lets loose a ten-thousand-megawatt smile before taking another exaggerated bite. “Nothing,” he mumbles around the too-big bite.

“It looks like something.” I cross my arms over my chest and raise an eyebrow. “A little early to make an enemy of me, don’t you think?”

“Ooof, you’re right. Especially one with a talent for vengeance.”

“You haven’t seen anything yet.”

“Neither have you. These are my emotional support cookies.” He places a palm over his chest. “I need them.” Another bite. “For stress management.”

“Trust me, you’re about to beverystressed. Nonnegotiable part of the unspoken roommate agreement. Desserts are shared. In fact, that will be the first unspoken rule to go into writing.” I reach for the cookies on the fridge, but my fingers barely scrape the ledge. I look at Dylan to find him biting his bottom lip, stifling a laugh. I roll my eyes at him before giving an embarrassing hop.

Fuck. Still can’t reach.

He steps closer, his chest inches from my back, before reaching over me. The package crinkles in his grip. He brings it to my eye level, holding out the cookies for me.

“Consider this a peace offering,” he murmurs into my ear. He steps away, but the feeling of him hovering over my back lingers a moment longer.

I turn, tossing the cookies onto the counter. I reach past him, grabbing a notepad and a pen, clicking it in the air between us.

“You’re serious…” he says, amused disbelief coating each word.

“First rule,” I narrate. “All desserts will be stored at an accessible height for both roommates and shared. No exceptions.”