His footsteps disappear down the hall, only to return a few seconds later. “I have Cheetos. And don’t worry, I washed my hands.”
My mouth waters instantly at the tried-and-true sound of a crunching bag. Be still my heart. I reach to turn the knob, opening the door wide enough to make a grabby-hands motion through the crack. He’s still not visible, with the exception of his hand as he passes the bag like a dicey drug deal. There’s a light dusting of ashy-brown hair on his wrist and knuckles. His palm is massive, almost twice the size of mine. I catch the tail end of a detailed, dark-gray tattoo in the area below his thumb, but before I can make out the design, his hand disappears behind the door.
Starved, I descend on the bag, ripping it open like an ape. In the span of under three minutes, I’ve demolished at least a quarter. Ashamed of my blatant gluttony, I slide it back through the crack. “Sorry, I’ve had a traumatic day.”
The bag crunches. “Shit. Because of me?”
“No. My day was already a wash before you.”
“Why?” he asks, passing the bag back.
“Today was supposed to mark a brand-new start. A turning point in my life. But I got mugged on the subway,” I admit through a crunch, “by a guy with some serious soul mate potential. The meet-cute was going so well until he stole my purse.”
“Wait, you got mugged? And what’s a meet-cute?” He repeats meet-cute slowly, like it’s a foreign concept. I watch his large hand reach through the crack for the Cheetos. There’s a Roman numeral tattoo on his wrist, partially obscured by his sleeve. I take a mental photo so I can decipher it later.
“A meet-cute is when two love interests meet for the first time,” I rattle off impatiently. “But yes. I got mugged. I was reading on the subway when this guy next to me started chatting me up. You should have seen this guy, Metcalfe. He was a snack. Definitely didn’t look like a mugger. Not that muggers have a particular look, but you know what I mean . . .”
We pass the bag back and forth as I rehash the story of Nate, from that initial moment of eye contact to when he jacked my purse （and all my hopes and dreams）。
“Well, that’s shit luck either way,” he says, sympathetic to my plight.
“Right? I’m starting to lose hope. Every time I meet a potential man, something goes horribly wrong. The last guy I met through a friend seemed normal, until he requested photos of my feet.”
“Foot fetish?”
“Apparently. I don’t want to fetish-shame, but I think I’m cursed. Today it’s a mugging. Tomorrow, probably a kidnapping. Some guy will lure me to his car with candy. I’ll go because I like free food. And he’ll toss me in the trunk and set my body on fire.” I grimace at the missed opportunity of flaunting my latest favorite number, a high-neck pink dress, in an open-casket funeral. I’ve already advised Crystal of my wish to be buried in it, and she’s assured me she’ll make it happen.
“Okay, that got dark real fast. This is why you should never trust strangers with candy,” Trevor warns.
“Technically you’re a stranger, with Cheetos,” I remind him, fishing a rogue Cheeto from the floor. I toss it in the trash can next to the sink.
“You’re a stranger too. In my bathroom. Who knows what you’ve done to my toothbrush.”
I have the sudden urge to change our stranger status. The hinges squeak as I pull the door open, poking my head out like a meerkat emerging from the protection of its sandy burrow.
Trevor is, indeed, fully clothed, back resting against the wall, long legs extended in front of him.
The top of his effortlessly tousled mop of dark hair juxtaposes with the short, neatly trimmed sides. Even through his Boston Fire Department hoodie, his biceps are mature, unyielding tree trunks. In comparison, mine are flimsier than a rice noodle.
His Adam’s apple bobs as he takes in my disheveled ponytail riddled with dry shampoo, scanning downward over my oversize maroon sweatshirt, which reads Nonfictional feelings for fictional men in Times New Roman font.
Now that he isn’t nude and his tattoos are adequately covered, I’m able to assess his eyes. They’re the color of honey, like an inferno of crackling firewood resisting merciless golden flames. They probably take on a mossy hue when the light hits them just right. Under the protective swoop of dense lashes, they’re foreboding, guarded. And when his gaze meets mine, my stomach betrays me with an uncalled-for barrel roll.
In an effort to maintain an iota of normalcy, I squint to blur his face out of focus, distracting myself with a humungous Cheeto. “Should I trust you, deliriously handsome stranger?”
His mouth shapes into a crooked smile as he stands, towering over me on the bathroom floor. “Nah. Probably not.”
? chapter three
One month later
ACCORDING TO GRANDMA Flo, the first moment you open your eyes sets the tone for the rest of the day. I liken it to an ill-advised opening scene of a novel, or a rom-com where the main character wakes up in full makeup; unstained, crisp pajamas; and perfectly intact barrel locks.
Though in reality, I routinely wake up looking like a cadaver from a grisly crime scene. Sickly, pale, and disheveled.
A blue, pre-sunrise glow peeks through the blinds, which tells me it’s one hour too early for consciousness and definitely far too late for the rhythmic squeak of the mattress and the steady drum of the headboard slamming against the wall across the hall.
It’s been one month since I moved in, and this is the third woman Trevor has brought home （not including the redhead from move-in day）。 One look at Trevor and it’s easy to understand his success with the ladies. Not only is he a heroic firefighter, but I’ve deduced he resembles a mildly less tortured, darker-haired version of the lead Sons of Anarchy outlaw biker, ready to whisk you away for a life of crime on his Harley-Davidson. In reality, Trevor doesn’t actually own a motorcycle. He owns a plum-colored used Toyota Corolla with like-new, spotless interior. But he does have the foreboding, tattooed-badass look going for him.
I certainly don’t resent Trevor for having a healthy sex life. In fact, after over a year of celibacy, I’m seething with jealousy. But cobwebs on my downstairs aside, sleep is a precious commodity as a shift worker. After back-to-back night shifts, I was looking forward to sleeping in today before transitioning to day shifts.
I fold my pillow over my head in a sad attempt to muffle the cries of pleasure. But somehow, they just grow louder. There’s only so much Yes, Oh God, and Fuck I can withstand before morbid curiosity sets in.
Is Trevor Metcalfe really that good in bed? Or is this woman faking it for the sake of his fragile male ego?
Must be faking it, I decide.
Without notice, my traitorous imagination gifts me a visual to accompany the audio. Trevor’s tattooed, sinewy forearms cage me in as his lustful gaze sweeps over the contours of my body. His thumb makes languished strokes on the underside of my wrist as he pins my hands above my head. The weight of his solid, muscled body puts pressure exactly where I want it. He presses the softest bite into my neck, sending a trill of electricity to the forgotten corners of my body before he—
I snap my eyes open, loosening my death grip around my blanket I didn’t know I was clutching. Where the hell did that come from? Am I that hard done by?