Dear Roomie (Rookie Rebels #5) - Kate Meader Page 0,51
I don’t think it’ll work. One, it’s unlikely I’ll be here and two, even if I was, it’d be too weird.”
“Why?”
“Because we’ll either be friends or enemies by then and I never sleep with either, or I’ll probably have slept with someone you know in the meantime, so it would be awkward for you and this other person. I could never do that to you.”
His brow darkened. “What other person?”
“Maybe someone on the team or—”
“My brother?” A thunderous expression set his mouth hard.
It hadn’t occurred to her, but it had obviously occurred to him. Tres interessant.
“Now you mention it, he is pretty cute. Cut-rate Durand but if I can’t have the prime beef, I’ll go for the next best thing.” Evil, Kennedy Clark, so evil. “And then, you and me? Off zee table, miss-your.”
She patted his arm with all the condescension one could put into it and took a little final enjoyment of that hard bicep. “But like I said, probably won’t happen. I’ve got to go to work. See you later!”
19
Reid’s phone buzzed. Right Wing Masshole: You busy?
He couldn’t help the expletive.
“What’s wrong?” Kennedy pressed pause on the serial killer documentary they were watching on Netflix. Well, Kennedy was watching it. Reid was employing his excellent peripheral vision skills, drinking in her pink-varnished toes and slim ankles and forcing his brain to take it no further.
He had tried being rude.
He had tried being distant.
He had tried kissing her hot, sweet mouth.
Now he was going with the age-old let’s-pretend-this-is-normal strategy. So far, it was working.
Just kidding. It was so not working. Two weeks of Kennedy in his space and he was a wreck. Bast had been sending texts every ten minutes asking after his dick, usually followed by gifs of eggplant explosions. Someone had gone to the trouble of creating that shit. Now this fresh hell.
“Foreman is texting me.” Reid had been in Chicago for three months. Had practiced and played with Foreman. Had roomed with him for away games. Had been on the receiving end of his fist. This was the first time the man had sent him a text.
“You mean Mia’s Foreman?”
Mia’s Foreman. That sounded about right. He texted back, Probably.
The phone rang. Fuck. The asshole had done the sneaky check-in with that text and now Reid had no choice but to answer. He hit the accept call button though acceptance was far from his mind.
“Yeah?”
“Some of the guys are coming over in thirty minutes or so. Thought I’d extend an invite.”
“Why?”
Foreman muttered something unintelligible, seemed to confer with someone else—a female someone else—then, “Because I’m a nice guy.”
“I’ve already eaten.”
“Good because I’m not offering food. Though Kershaw and Jorgenson usually order pizza because they’re fucking garbage cans.”
At Reid’s snort, Foreman pounced. “Have I amused the unamusable Reid Durand?”
“Don’t get carried away.” He caught Kennedy’s eye. She had paused the cheerleader-cannibal manual, and was now leaning on her palm, smiling like one of her favorite serial killers.
“I would but my dog sitter is busy tonight.” Kennedy had something on, another side gig at a community college with an art class.
“Bring the dog,” Foreman said. “I’d like to see him again. I miss my own.”
Boxed in and no way out. “Thirty minutes, you said?”
“Yup. I’ll text the address.” Then he hung up before Reid could. Fuck-er.
Kennedy fluttered her eyelashes. “You got a play date with your buddies?”
“It wasn’t clear what exactly would be happening, but yeah, I have a play date.”
“Aw! And you’re bringing Bucky.” Bucky was currently cowering at the side of the sofa because he was scared of the Netflix ta-dum sound, though it had reverberated through the apartment thirty minutes ago. What a dummy.
Kennedy leaned down and petted him, revealing a whisper of lace of her underwear.
Jesus. Maybe anywhere but here would be a good place to be.
“You should bring the raspberry brownies. I made two batches and I’m going to bring the other one to Edie.”
Another thing that bugged him—the constant baking.
“The guys won’t thank you.”
“I don’t need thanks.” She studied him closely. “So tell me your strategy.”
“My strategy?”
“You don’t seem to be too friendly with your teammates.”
“I’m new.”
“But you’re not making an effort either. Mia says you’re a dick, but a dick with purpose. So what’s the strategy?”
What the hell was a dick with purpose? “It’s easier to keep my distance.”
“Really? In a team sport?”
“I’m in competition with most of the NHL, even the people on my own team. Take Foreman. He and I are both on the right-wing, so for each game, Coach