didn’t do,” I tell him, reaching for the fruit-flavored Cheerios.
“If we’d done what you’re insinuating we did last night, believe me, she wouldn’t be avoiding me.”
I turn to frown at him before I can think better of it, catching his bright smile and the strong planes of his jaw, peppered with a five-o’clock shadow—the perfect kind like you see on the giant posters in the mall, rather than the poky and scarce variety that much of the male student body wears. I turn just as fast, reaching for a spoon.
“What’s your name? And where are you from?” he asks.
“It’s not important,” I tell him, letting my cereal sit while I get the coffee started.
“I think it is.”
I glance up, caught off guard by his teasing and flirtatious manner. Maybe it’s because it’s so early or because I stayed up too late—I’d pledged to only read one chapter of my new romance novel, and somehow one turned into six. But most likely, it’s because he slept with my best friend last night and is looking at me like I’m a second course.
I return my attention to the coffeepot, and like my alarm clock this morning, it suddenly seems to have grown too many buttons, and nothing makes sense as I try to focus on my task. “Look,” I say, stabbing the ‘start’ button with satisfaction. “That whole one-and-done rule means you’re supposed to leave, not stick around and make terrible attempts at flirting with her roommate. Rose won’t be jealous or impressed. It also means that I’ll never see you again, so trust me when I say my name’s not important.” I shovel a few spoonfuls of cereal into my mouth, making a point to avoid looking at him as I sift through a pile of mail.
“Are you always this cranky? Or are you not a morning person?” he asks.
“This is me being cheerful,” I deadpan.
He laughs, and the sound is like the engine of an expensive car, so smooth and effortless, I nearly steal another glance. Instead, I quickly shovel in a few more bites of cereal and grab my favorite commuter cup from the dishwasher. It’s old and chipped near the mouthpiece from when it had fallen from the top of my car a couple of years ago, but it gets the job done. I pull the coffeepot out before it’s finished percolating, making it hiss as a drop hits the warmer. I fill the contents of the pot into my cup before returning it.
“You have an accent,” he says as I add a heavy hand of sugar to my coffee.
“You have an accent,” I accuse.
His laughter is instant, shorter this time. “But yours is sexy.”
My eyes cut to him again, and with this final pass, I notice the playful twist of his lips, a small scar over his eyebrow and another on his cheek. The broadness of his shoulders and the width of his wrists, revealed by the sleeves of his black sweater being pushed up, and enunciated by the silver watch on display. It looks heavy and expensive, but it’s hard to focus on it because, for some reason, I’m admiring his wrist—his entire forearm, if I’m being honest. Are forearms sexy? I’ve never thought of forearms as sexy, but I’ll have to add them to the list because this guy’s forearms are indeed erotic.
I abandon the rest of my cereal down the garbage disposal, pour some cream into my coffee, and don’t even bother fishing for a spoon to mix it. With the lid screwed on tight, I retreat to my room, find a clean-ish pair of jeans that I replace my shorts for, and exchange my tank and sweatshirt for a bra and long-sleeved tee.
Freshman year, I always made sure to put on makeup and do my hair before every class, now I deem it a miracle if I show up wearing real pants.
Laptop. Wallet. Phone. I check the items off as I toss them into my backpack, then grab my coffee and head for the bedroom door. When I pull it closed, I twist the little lock on the back—the kind I used to pick with a metal hanger when I was little, and mom hid the gifts in our hall closet. It seems like a necessary precaution considering mister Sexy Wrists is still sitting in our dining room.
“Are you a sophomore or junior?” he asks.
“Junior. And when you get tired of waiting, don’t leave sappy notes or flowers. It won’t change anything. She