a feeling I won’t need it tomorrow.” I wink to make him snicker and return to my food.
2
Olivia
I reach for my alarm clock, pressing every button I can feel to make it stop beeping. Instead, my fingers graze the volume, making the sound pound in my head. I groan, wiping the sleep from my eyes and grabbing the small alarm clock that Rose installed last night to replace my last one. This one looks old and oddly similar to the clock from my mom’s nightstand, with the faux wood from the eighties look and bulbous buttons. I’m distracted, caught in a time warp as I stare at it, wondering where she found it. I give up on the buttons and simply follow the cord to where it’s plugged in behind my bed and give it a firm tug.
My ears ring in the silence, and my mood is somewhere between the feeling you get when turning on the radio only to discover your favorite song is ending and having to scrub a stainless-steel pan after someone made scrambled eggs with cheese and didn’t soak it.
I place the offending alarm clock back on my nightstand and reach for my black Brighton U hoodie from the back of my desk chair. I pull it over my tank top and tug on a pair of socks before trudging to the bathroom to brush my teeth. My eyes are puffy, and my hair’s a mess, so I turn my attention to the multiple products littering my bathroom counter, trying to recall if I bought all these nail polishes or if Rose did. I head out to the living room and kitchen combo that I share with my roommate and sometimes—excluding this morning—best friend Rose. We need to vacuum, and we should probably take down the Christmas lights that we hung after Thanksgiving break since tomorrow is the first of February.
My thoughts cease at the sight of a dark-haired stranger seated at our dining room table. His eyes are gray, curtained with a heavy fringe of dark eyelashes, watching as I come to a stop. Humor dances in his expression and the ghost of a smirk touches his lips. He looks like the smirking type, too, loaded with innuendos and smiles that girls—other girls—likely find endearing. But I know his type. I know it because my best friend Rose has invited enough guys like him to our apartment. He’s trouble. And it’s not just the pirate smirk or the dark, mussed hair that clues me in. It’s the way he’s sitting at the table that gives him away, his broad shoulders leaning back against the chair, one arm draped across the top. Long legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles. Fingers drumming against his massive thigh as he continues to stare at me like somehow, I’m the one intruding on his space and not the other way around. He’s all confidence and smirk and muscle, and that spells trouble.
I glance from him to Rose’s door, and then back again. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but she’s not the breakfast and snuggle type.”
His eyes crinkle at the edges, warming like he’s amused. “What?”
“Rose,” I explain, pointing toward her room. “Her motto isn’t a joke. One and done.” I repeat the words she clarifies with each guy before bringing them back or going home with them. “You’re wasting your time. She’s not looking for a relationship.” I pull open the fridge to grab the milk and carry it over to the cabinet to get a bowl.
“You think I slept with Rose?” His voice is deep and smooth, filled with bravado like I knew it would be.
I turn to look at him, hearing the smile in his voice. He’s grinning at me, his eyes dropping to my favorite pair of pajama shorts, which are too tight and too short to wear in public, but are the best for sleeping in so I don’t get too warm. It’s then I notice that his gray eyes are the same shade as the Seattle skyline. I cut my gaze before contemplating if his lips are really that round and beautiful—because lips aren’t beautiful, they’re lips, and I’m tired and cranky, and it’s too early to have this discussion. It’s barely after six. I need some breakfast and coffee, and then I need to get to class since it is my unfortunate luck that my professor is poker friends with my father.