chapter eleven
IT WAS SO close. He was so close to being perfect.” I pace frantically in the empty space between the living room and the kitchen, replaying the night with Brandon. In the end, we parted ways amicably. He forcefully insisted on paying the bill out of pure pity before leaving me with a lackluster kiss to the forehead.
Trevor cringes at me from the stool at the island. “Stop pacing. You’re making me dizzy. And I think the best course of action here is to put the teddy bear away and go to bed.” Why is he so responsible?
My pacing quickens, as well as my grip on the stuffed teddy bear Brandon bought for me so many Valentine’s Days ago. “Nah. I’d prefer to overanalyze and pinpoint the moment it all went up in flames. For future reference. So I don’t keep messing things up.”
A hint of a smile plays across his lips. “I have been known to put out a flame or two. Anything I can do to help?”
I’m touched by the offer, but at this point, I’ve already dug my own grave halfway to the earth’s core. “Not unless you can turn back time.”
He stands from the stool. “I may have something.”
“Do you have some sort of secret time-traveling wardrobe?” I ask hopefully, following him into the hallway.
“Obviously. Doesn’t everyone?”
I’m puzzled when he stops outside my bedroom door and points to the mess of clothes on the floor. “If you’re about to try to convince me that cleaning is therapeutic, I might punch—”
“Be quiet and put your bathing suit on,” he orders before disappearing into his bedroom, closing the door behind him.
“My bathing suit?” I call.
“Yup.”
I blink, dumbfounded. “Is this some weird sexual ploy? Are you trying to hook up with me right now?”
He makes a tsk sound, like the idea is absurd. “God, no.”
I’m too busy freaking the hell out about wearing a swimsuit in front of another human being, let alone a ridiculously attractive human being with the body of a god. Insecurities aside, my curiosity has spiked, so I swallow my pride and throw on my trusty floral one-piece and fluffy bathrobe.
Trevor is waiting at the front door when I emerge, clad in navy-blue swim trunks, a black T-shirt, and . . . army-green Crocs.
It takes all my willpower to resist laughing and pointing like a child, and he can tell, based on his death glare. He’s silently daring me to comment, and of course, I do.
“I didn’t take you for a puttering-around-in-Crocs kinda guy,” I say, following him out the door.
He grunts, leading me up the stairwell. “They’re practical.”
“I would advise you not to wear those in public. Especially in front of women, if you want to get laid,” I say, failing to muffle my snort-laughter.
“Does it look like I need help getting laid?” he asks over his shoulder.
I swallow. Definitely not.
Not three minutes later, Trevor and I are wrapped in flimsy towels, teeth chattering, freezing our asses off on the roof. This rooftop is nothing like one of those fancy high-rises with a lush garden and pergola draped with twinkle lights. It’s sparse, with an ancient covered barbecue and some rickety, cobweb-infested lawn chairs. Luckily, the building is too low to take the brunt of the harsh wind.
I’m shivering so violently, I don’t even stop to admire the picturesque view of the dilapidated four-story directly to our left. Confused and wildly annoyed, I’m about to flee back inside when Trevor nudges me to the right. Behind a massive rusted square structure housing an exhaust fan is something unexpected.
A hot tub.
It’s randomly placed. Kind of like the hot tubs that magically appear at opportune moments on The Bachelor. Surrounded by a plastic deck area and a bench, the hot tub itself is tiny. I’d guess it seats a maximum capacity of four people, and even that’s pushing it. I lean over to inspect. It’s ancient, but void of gross hairs and questionable debris. And if neurotic Trevor seems to think it’s appropriate for use, it must be so.
“Hot tub time machine. It’s a great place to overanalyze,” Trevor announces, tossing his towel on the bench before pulling the cover off the hot tub. With every twist and stride, he emits a certain brand of dangerous energy in his wide, dominating, UFC-like stance. I imagine a toxic rock anthem partially drowned out by thunderous applause from a bloodthirsty live audience.
“Har-har, you are so clever,” I say, holding my robe closed.
Trevor lowers himself chest-deep in the water, his eyes closed as the misty vapor coils upward, disappearing into the brisk air around him.
I hesitate to follow. Sure, I’m desperate to escape the frigid winter air in favor of the comfort of a warm bath, but the idea of sharing a pint-size hot tub with Trevor feels . . . intimate. Then again, we’re merely platonic, opposite-sex roommates, right?
My lustful gaze traces the lines of his broad shoulders above the surface of the frothy water, roped with the dense, effortless muscle of a man who spends his days busting doors down. The uncalled-for image of him in full fire gear, emerging from a collapsing building engulfed in flame, hurtles through my mind. A young woman’s limp body is draped across his arms like it’s no big deal. Just a normal day in the life of Trevor Metcalfe.
“Get in before you freeze.” His order snaps me back to reality.
Reflexively, my fingers clamp over the lapel of my robe, pulling it tighter, just teetering on the balls of my feet. He’s surely judging me like I’m a socially inept weirdo who doesn’t understand the mechanics of using a hot tub.
The very act of dropping my robe in front of him feels dangerous, a little illicit. I don’t know if it’s the mixture of trauma and alcohol from earlier, but it’s kind of thrilling. Some forgotten, seductive side of me—my alter ego, if you will—takes over entirely. I’m basically a Miss USA contestant during the bikini round, strutting my hot bod down the runway in five-inch heels. The moment the lights hit me, I wow the judges with a sassy yet classy pose before removing my sarong (robe) with an expert flick of the wrist.
Unfortunately for Trevor, he missed the entire thing. By the time I dramatically drape my robe over the back of the chair, he’s already closed his eyes, confirming that I’m a nonsexual being to him. I could be entirely nude, nipples out and about, and he probably couldn’t be bothered to steal a glance. Or maybe he’s so in love with Angie, he can’t bear to set his eyes upon another woman’s body.
Marginally comforted by this conclusion, I submerge myself as the jets start in a rumble of foamy bubbles. The heat envelops my body, contrasting the harsh chill.
Aside from the hum of the jets and the faint sound of traffic horns in the distance, it’s surprisingly tranquil. It reminds me of that time I went to a high-class spa with Mom and Crystal on Mother’s Day. I was nearly kicked out twice by an employee whose sole job was to walk around and shush people. Silence and I have never been more than distant acquaintances.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about this top secret hot tub,” I say.
Trevor squints at me through the mist, as though abruptly reminded of my presence. “Figured Scotty told you. And you never asked me about the amenities.”
“Because I didn’t think there were any. The building doesn’t even have a working elevator.”
“Well, now you know.” When he closes his eyes again, I’m transfixed by the little bubbles of vapor on his unfairly thick lashes.
“This sucks balls,” I whine, unable to stop dwelling on the night. I sink neck-deep in the tub, cozying against a jet. “Brandon was eighty percent there. I didn’t have a ton of expectations for Jeff. But I had a good feeling about Brandon. I kind of expected things to fall into place.”
“Hate to break it to you, but Brandon wasn’t eighty percent,” he tells me gruffly.
“He was.” I stare upward to the inky black sky. “He and I get along so well. Always did. Back in college we spent hours together and never ran out of things to talk about. We’re aligned on everything when it comes to morals and—”
“Fifty. Maximum,” Trevor cuts in. “He didn’t want the same things as you, period. What were you gonna do? Travel with him for months, hating your life, only to realize he doesn’t want to settle down? It woulda been a big waste of time. You could be compatible as chocolate and peanut butter, but what does it matter if you don’t want the same things?”
I do like chocolate and peanut butter. But that’s neither here nor there. Why must Trevor make me confront harsh truths? Brandon and I didn’t want the same things. Sure, he and I could have been happy together in a snapshot in time. But a full life with him would mean giving up everything I value and leaving my family and friends behind. I’m always willing to compromise for love, but uprooting my entire life for travel and zero commitment doesn’t seem worth it.
Troubled by the realization, I elect to change the subject entirely. “Do you bring all your ladies up here?”
Trevor appears preoccupied with his mountain of bubbles, pushing them left to right. I take his lack of verbal response as a yes.
“I’ve heard hot tub sex sucks,” I say, mostly to rattle him.
This gets his attention. “I beg to differ.” His voice comes out low and strained, which does something to my insides.
I dry-swallow the lump in my throat. Am I turned on right now? I readjust myself in my seat, away from the blast of the jet. It’s the jets. It must be the jets. It means nothing. Anyone who shares a tiny apartment with a dangerously attractive man is going to get hot and bothered every so often. It’s basic science.
“It’s like the shower,” I say. “It’s a hot fantasy, but in reality, it’s too much friction. And there’s a high risk of urinary tract infection. Especially in here. Who knows how many weirdos from this building have used it.”
A slight smile plays across his lips, but he doesn’t respond. I’ve officially made it awkward. Perhaps it’s too early to talk about sex with Trevor. We’ve only known each other for two months.
“Did you know my social media followers are obsessed with you?”
He freezes. “What?”
“You haven’t followed me yet?” I sigh, disappointed. “That time you came into my room, I was still on Live. You were in the video for a split second, and my followers liked what they saw.”
“I see. I don’t know whether to be flattered or weirded out,” he says, unimpressed with himself. It strikes me that Trevor exudes a unique brand of confidence. He carries himself with a self-assured gait, yet he doesn’t seem to know how to take a compliment. His humor is a little self-deprecating, just like mine.
Before I can respond, the rooftop door creaks open. A short, stubby man with a wispy white comb-over comes sauntering around the corner, impossibly tiny towel curled around his neck.
Trevor gives me a classic Jim from The Office look. The wide-eyed one he does into the camera when Michael Scott says or does something obscene.
“Evening.” The man nods politely as he swings a ghostly white leg into the water, testing the temperature.
I retract my original statement. This hot tub is not suitable for more than two.
When the man’s toenail inadvertently brushes my leg under the water, I stealthily shift closer to Trevor. The man doesn’t appear bothered by the close quarters. He comfortably rests both arms behind him on the edge of the hot tub, taking up more than his fair share of space.
“Gerald, from fifth,” he announces, his eyes half-closed.
“Tara and Trevor from fourth,” I respond, actively avoiding Trevor’s tight-lipped smile, because I’ll burst out laughing if I do.
It isn’t long before Gerald is barely even lucid, his head tipped back, seemingly in a state of bliss. I have no choice but to pick up where I left off, as if he’s not here. I flick water in Trevor’s direction. “Trev, tell me your life story.”
He screws up his face. It appears he’d rather do anything else. “I’m really not that interesting.”
I let out an audible growl and drag my fingertips over the water, flicking it in his direction again. “You’re so mysterious. I’m beginning to think you’re a 007 secret sleeper agent.”
He cuts me a sly grin, amused by my conspiracy theories. He gears up to splash me back, but refrains. Gerald has perked up and appears keen to listen in. “If I were a spy, I wouldn’t be living in our shitty apartment. And I most definitely wouldn’t live with a roommate who never stops talking. You’d blow my cover for sure.”
“You’re deflecting. Steering the subject away from you. That’s classic spy shit. Why are you so mysterious over the most basic things?” I urge, circling back to my original question. “You even get cagey when I ask what you ate for dinner.”
“Because I’m not that interesting. I doubt you care what I ate for dinner last night.”
“I care,” I assure him.
He shrugs lazily. “All right. You’ll regret saying that when I text you every single thing I eat and drink.” My fingers tingle at the prospect of exclusive access to his daily life, however insignificant. “Anyway, what else do you want to know? My favorite color?”
“Nah. Something I don’t know.” Like Angie’s identity.
“I never told you my favorite color.”
“It’s dark green. You have multiple dark-green T-shirts.”
He doesn’t argue that point. Instead, he plays with the bubbles for a few moments, shaking his head in amused disbelief. “What else do you know about me?”
“You’re really making me do all the work here, aren’t you?” I sigh. “Okay, fine. I know you’re good at finding deals at the grocery store.” When I first moved in, he insisted I accompany him on a Costco trip, where he examined the flyer for deals for a solid ten minutes before so much as pushing the cart down the first aisle. When I grabbed a bag of prewashed and prechopped lettuce, he nearly had a heart attack and went on a tangent about how much more “yield” I get for my money if I buy a full romaine head. His penny-pinching ways remind me of Dad, who wears his clothes until they’re so worn with holes that Mom has to purge them in secret.
“You’re a good cook too. Somehow you make vegetables look marginally less nauseating. You have a very particular way you like the dishwasher filled. And I can tell when you’ve had a good or bad day at work.”
“How?”
“When it’s a bad day, you stomp around a little and raid my snack stash before showering. When it’s a good day, you still raid my snacks, but when you shower, you hum a tune that sounds suspiciously like ‘I Knew You Were Trouble’ by Taylor Swift.”
He appears semi-amused (and doesn’t deny his shower song), so I push a little further. “Now that I’ve proven myself, I reserve the right to ask you something important.”
He swallows nervously, bracing for it.
“Who was your first celebrity crush?” I ask, lifting my top half out of the water to get some relief from the heat.
I can’t confirm, but I think Trevor’s eyes drifted to my chest for a fraction of a second.
“He looks like a Pamela Anderson type to me,” Gerald chimes in, jabbing a thumb in Trevor’s direction.
Trevor gives him a look of solidarity. “I liked Pam. Britney Spears too.”
I smirk. “That’s very . . . typical.”
Trevor angles toward Gerald. “Gerald, who was your first celebrity crush?”
“Miss Dolly Parton,” he responds proudly. He waves a hand toward me, signaling it’s my turn.
“I have many. The kid from Casper was probably my very first. But I’d say my first sexual awakening was Zac Efron in his High School Musical days.”
“What got you? The sweeping bangs? The piercing blue eyes?” Trevor asks.
“Definitely his angry dance in High School Musical 2.”
“I won’t even pretend to know what you’re talking about,” he says with a headshake.
“Nowadays, I’m pretty into Dwight Schrute,” I inform.
Trevor chokes. “From The Office?”
“Yup.”
“Do you mean Jim?”
“Nope. Dwight.”
He shoots me a disturbed look. “Are we thinking of the same Dwight? Glasses? Owns a beet farm?”
“The only Dwight on the show,” I confirm. “Okay, hear me out—”
He lobs his head back with his deep laugh. “Are you really going to try to convince me Dwight Schrute gets your motor running?”
“He does. You wouldn’t understand,” I shoot back, drawing my shoulders up in defense.
“What gets you hot? The puke-mustard short-sleeved dress shirts? His affinity for Battlestar Galactica?”
“His pure dedication to Angela, of course. Anyway, you’re distracting me.” I clear my throat, eager to keep this going. “Next question. Why did you become a firefighter?”
Trevor’s face hardens to stone. “It’s not an interesting story.”
“You’re the worst.” When I reach to retighten my bun, I note my fingers are prunes and my hair is starting to frost. It’s time to get out of here. I stand to exit the tub. The moment the frigid air hits my skin, gooseflesh erupts. I make a mad dash for my towel on the lounge chair.
Trevor nods his chin toward Gerald as he steps out of the gurgling water, swim trunks dripping. “Have a good night.”
Fifteen minutes later, I’m warm and dry, star-fishing with a book in my usual spot on the living room floor. I’m bundled in my flannel pajamas, partway through my chapter, when Trevor emerges in respectable sweatpants and a T-shirt. I expect him to walk over me and head for the television, or simply judge me from above, but surprisingly, he stretches out on the floor next to me.
“This is weirdly comfortable,” he admits, lining his shoulders up with mine.
“See? It’s amazing. Life-changing,” I say, keeping my eyes on the page.
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“I have some of my most genius thoughts down here.”
“I’m sure you do,” he says, reading over my shoulder. “What’s this book about? Looks like a cowboy romance.”
“You’d be correct.”
“Second-chance?”
“Indeed. And a secret baby too. My favorite.” He chuckles softly, and there’s a beat of silence before I turn onto my side, facing him. “You’re a good friend for coming with me tonight,” I say, staring at his dense lash line with envy. My fatigue is causing me to see two Trevors, which is less disturbing than it should be.
A tiny grin forms. “I’m sure any one of your other friends would have done the same.”
“I don’t know. I don’t have all that many friends. Aside from Crystal and Mel, and realistically, Crystal has to be my friend by default. Sometimes I feel like they’re a bit dismissive of me. When I told them about the ex thing, they laughed it off like it was a joke.” It’s not that I don’t love Crystal and Mel. They’re my best friends. But sometimes I can’t help but feel like a third wheel.
He watches me thoughtfully. “I don’t believe you have a hard time making friends.”
“It’s harder than you’d think, especially at thirty. I have lots of acquaintances. But close friends I could call up last minute and snuggle with? Not so much.”
“Hm. That surprises me. They’re missing out.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
One glance at his tiny, stubborn smile and my stomach flutters. My body tenses with new awareness of the press of his shoulder against mine.
My thoughts are spinning, aching to unpack my body’s reaction to his touch, but my mind is pulled elsewhere—to his eyes. The kitchen light illuminates the rich ring of dense forest green, surrounded by another loop of gold in his irises.
Our shared gaze holds for a beat longer than casual before his eyes fall to my mouth. His throat bobs with a slow, almost hesitant swallow, and his jaw goes soft.
Based on my extensive catalog of romance knowledge from books and film, these are signs of an impending kiss.
Trevor Metcalfe wants to kiss me.