Nice Guys Don't Win (The Boys #2) - Micalea Smeltzer Page 0,5
items that I have to figure out how to put together.” She winces. “Wow, that sounds ungrateful.”
“Nah, I get it.”
“You have a crappy parent too?”
I think of my mom and dad, two of my favorite people in the entire world. How they always made sure to make my sisters and I a priority and never let outsiders’ whispers about our family get us down. Not that it was always easy growing up biracial—especially with my mom black and my dad white. Interracial relationships are still frowned upon by a lot of people, but at least for me I noticed that white women with black men seemed to be far more accepted than my parents were and that … that fucking sucked, because I knew how in love they are. The kind of sickly-sweet love that most people never find. I’m not sure I’ll even be lucky enough to have it.
“No, my parents are great.” I start carrying her boxes inside. “But I’ve had friends who haven’t had it as good, so I know how it is.”
“Oh.” She picks up a box herself, and dammit if my eyes don’t stray to her pert round ass filling out a pair of pink cotton shorts.
Zoey’s got long legs, honey brown skin, and the prettiest curls I’ve ever seen. Her dark brown eyes are kind, but there’s a hint of something there that tells me she’s been through some shit. She’s beautiful, the kind of beautiful that steals your breath, but she’s my roommate and I definitely shouldn’t be checking her out. Especially since I swore off women after everything that happened last year.
I met Rory and really liked her, thought we had a connection, but it turned out it was my best friend Mascen who got her in the end. He and Rory grew up together, which I hadn’t known, and apparently lost their way. Looking at them now, I know they’re perfect together and Rory and I never stood a chance, but it doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt. I need to focus on basketball this year and figuring out what comes next.
Zoey and I make quick work of getting the boxes in and she sits down with a box cutter to get started on them.
“I can help you put stuff together,” I offer.
She looks up, already shaking her head. “It’s okay. I’ll figure it out myself.”
I bend down, joining her on the floor. “I have no doubt you can, but it’ll go faster with the two of us.”
Her lips thin and I know she’s hesitant to accept my help, but after a moment she gives a tiny jerk of her head. I don’t let her think twice about it.
After a few minutes of silence, she turns some music on her phone.
“Dan and Shay?” I ask in surprise.
She glances over at me, setting a white board meant to be a shelf in a bookcase aside. “Yeah, you have something against country?”
“Not at all.” My lips twitch. I love country, but it’s not something I really talk about, not when most of my friends and teammates are obsessed with rap or anything raunchy. If they found out I actually enjoy new country I’d never hear the end of it. “What do you want me to build first?”
Zoey pauses, a piece of carboard clasped in her hands. “You really don’t have to do this.”
“Zoey.” I’m not about to have this argument again. “If it makes you feel better you can help me put my bed together whenever I get one.”
She cracks a smile. “Deal. I guess we’ll start with the desk.”
She already has a bed and brand-new mattress. It seems like her dad is trying extra hard to make amends. But maybe he’d be better off actually talking to his daughter instead of dumping an insane amount of furniture into her lap.
Not that I’m complaining about our new flat-screen TV or the couch that is large enough to comfortably fit my six-foot-six frame. It’s way better than the secondhand one I’d been eyeing at a local thrift store.
An hour later, with the desk and chair put together, Zoey sits back, tucking her legs beneath her. She gathers her curls up, tying them with some sort of coiled elastic. “Are you sure you’re okay with me living here?” she asks, hesitancy on her face.
I snort, shaking my head as I pick up the directions for the bookcase. “Yeah, I’m fucking sure. You’re saving my ass. I figured I’d be kicked out the first month when I