Page 17 of The Wild Card

The way she smelled: vanilla and something citrusy—probably from whatever she uses in her hair. It hit me when she leaned across the table for the parmesan, and I held my breath like an idiot.

Climb you like a tree.

I press the heels of my hands against my eyes.

She called me eye candy. Said women probably want to—

Nope. Not going there.

But my body’s already gone there, apparently, because I’m half-hard against the mattress, and this is absolutely not happening. I’m not going to lie here and think about my roommate—in any capacity that involves the word “climb.”

I think about baseball. Tax returns. The time Foster made me watch a four-hour documentary about bridge construction.

Nothing works.

Now I’m remembering the curve of her thighs when she crouched down to pet Murphy. The strip of skin between her shirt and waistband when she reached for a glass from the top shelf.

I’ve been so focused on control, on routine, on keeping everything in its proper place, that I forgot what it feels like to want something. Someone.

How long has it been since I’ve had sex?

I do the math. Eight months? Nine? There was a woman I met at a bar, a one-night thing that was efficient and forgettable. Before that, another year of nothing. I don’t do relationships. Don’t do intimacy. Don’t let people close enough to see the mess underneath the surface. It’s just easier that way. Always has been.

My hand drifts down before I can stop it, pressing the heel of my palm against my cock through my shorts. Just pressure. Just enough to take the edge off.

No.

I yank my hand back and stuff it under my head.

This is insane. She’s been here one day—less than twelve hours. And I’m lying in bed like a teenager, worked up over her smiling at me and making pasta.

I throw off the covers and sit up. This is ridiculous.

I need to do something. Anything. Get out of my head before I lose what’s left of my mind.

The contract.

She needs her copy for her records. That’s a legitimate reason to knock on her door at—I check my phone—9:58 PM. Totally reasonable. Important legal documents shouldn’t wait until morning.

I’m already out of bed, grabbing the envelope from my desk and moving down the hallway before I can talk myself out of it.

I knock. Three sharp raps.

There’s a pause. Shuffling. Then the door swings open.

And my brain stops working.

She’s wearing sleep shorts. Tiny ones—the kind that barely qualify as clothing—showing off legs that go on forever, even though she’s barely five-four. A tank top that’s thin enough for me to see the outline of—don’t look—and her hair’s down, tumbling over her shoulders in messy waves.

But that’s not what kills me.

It’s the reading glasses—thick purple frames perched on her nose. And the tube socks, slouchy and mismatched; one pulled up to her calf and one bunched around her ankle.

I have no idea why that should be hot.

It is.

“Crew?” She blinks up at me, and I watch her gaze drop from my face to my chest and stick there.