“You know. Jerking off.”
Oh, that!
Fair enough, makes sense.
I nod. “Okay.”
My eyes trail to her little pad, to her list.
1. No physical contact of a sexual nature, including but not limited to: kissing, sex, fooling around.
I frown. Why must we be so formal with each other and create rules? I like Eliza a lot.
No. I’m incredibly attracted to her; we have loads in common and I want to be her friend—wanted to date her before I foolishly opened my gob and invited her to live with me.
My eyes scan the paper.
2. Knock when entering, even with an open door.
She is quite pleased with herself.
3. Clean up after ourselves, do not leave it for the other person.
4. No loud noise, keep volumes to a regular decibel, especially after 9 PM.
It certainly looks as if she’s thought this whole roommate thing through more so than I have, but what do I know about living with a female? I never even lived with Caroline, and she rarely spent the night—not until I leased my swanky London flat and she could brag to her friends about it.
5. Take turns taking the garbage out.
6. Ask before having people over (Eliza).
7. Do not bring strange guys to the house unannounced (Eliza)—Jack is entitled to bring anyone to the house, since it is his house.
“Do you plan on bringing strange guys to the house?” I can’t help but ask, can’t help being curious.
“No.”
“Then why do you have it on the list?”
“Just in case.”
“In case you go partying and want to shag someone random at the house?”
“Sure. Or maybe I meet someone out and about.”
“Out and about?” I shoot her a look. “Where?”
The coffee shop? The library?
The sofa?
The last time she was at a party, she was with me.
In the bathroom, whispering about being locked in with me and worried about the people waiting in line. Worried her roommate would discover us there.
We were cockblocked before we had any chance of discovering what this relationship could potentially be. I have no idea why this makes me sad or why I’m dwelling on it, but the truth is she is the first person I’ve connected with in the longest time, and I feel the loss. Feel it with each and every numeric point on her little list of rules.
Obviously I want Eliza to be happy. That was the whole purpose of me inviting her to live in this house to begin with—making her life easier and giving her a bed to sleep in because the thought of her miserable and grasping for a new situation sickens me.
She’s my mate, too.
I don’t just want to shag her.
I mean, I do—but not if all she wants is to be roommates.
Lies we tell ourselves…
“Do you have anything you want to add to this list?”
I consider this. “Rule eight: half-naked Thursday.”
This rule pleases me—I’m so clever—and I grin.
Which earns me a smack on the arm. “Knock it off.”
“Okay fine, completely naked Thursday. Socks optional.”
I can’t tolerate socks in bed, but I’m willing to make an exception for her on account of she’s so darn cute.
She can’t help smiling back at me this time, hiding the grin in the collar of her sweatshirt, betraying herself.
It’s godawful late when my mobile rings.
So godawful late it can only be one person calling.
Well…technically a bunch of persons could be phoning me, given that my entire family lives half a world away on a completely different continent, but typically it’s one of three people:
Dad.
Mum.
Ashley.
Every once in a great while, Georgia, my sister-in-law, will call, but mostly, she texts instead.
Rolling to the side of my bed, I fumble for my mobile in the dark, palming it from my nightstand and yanking the charger out before automatically answering it.
“Hello?” I pull back to see who it is before greeting her with a “Hey, Mum.”
“Hello, darling,” she drawls in that voice I love so much. “Did I catch you in bed for the evening or were you out?”
I mean, it is one o’clock in the morning, so presumably I am in bed.
I don’t tell her this, of course. Don’t want to come off as cheeky. Plus, it’s not likely she’ll call me at a reasonable time. Mum normally makes an effort to reach out when it’s convenient for her, which is either before her bedtime or first thing in the morning before she leaves the house.
Considering it’s so early back in the United Kingdom, I can only assume she is ready to head to her fitness class and thought she would ring me while she has breakfast.
This is confirmed by the obvious sound of a silver spoon clanging against fine china as she stirs her tea before laying the utensil to rest on the saucer.
Mum sips then swallows. “I wanted to check in on you—it’s been a good few days. How is my baby boy?”