I don’t have an answer for that. I roll onto my back because the way he’s looking at me makes me want to rethink one-night stands. I’m not necessarily against them, I suppose. I’ve just never been propositioned for one by someone I would consider it with.
Until now. I think. Is he even propositioning me? I’ve always been terrible at flirting.
He reaches out and grabs the edge of my lounge chair. In one swift movement and with very minimal effort, he drags my chair closer to him until it bumps his.
My whole body stiffens. He’s so close now, I can feel the warmth of his breath cutting through the cold air. If I were to look at him, his face would be mere inches from mine. I refuse to look at him, because he’d probably kiss me and I know absolutely nothing about this guy, other than a couple of naked truths. But that doesn’t weigh on my conscience at all when he rests a heavy hand on my stomach.
“How far would you go, Lily?” His voice is decadent. Smooth. It travels straight to my toes. “I don’t know,” I whisper.
His fingers begin to crawl toward the hem of my shirt. He begins to slowly inch it upward until a slither of my stomach is showing. “Oh, Jesus,” I whisper, feeling the warmth from his hand as he slides it up my stomach.
Against my better judgment, I face him again and the look in his eyes completely captivates me. He looks hopeful and hungry and completely confident. He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip as his hand begins to tease its way up my shirt. I know he can feel my heart thrashing around in my chest. Hell, he can probably hear it.
“Is this too far?” he asks.
I don’t know where this side of me is coming from, but I shake my head and say, “Not even close.”
With a grin, his fingers brush the underneath of my bra, lightly trickling over my skin that is now covered in chills. As soon as my eyelids fall shut, the piercing of a ring rips through the air. His hand stiffens when we both realize it’s a phone. His phone.
He drops his forehead to my shoulder. “Dammit.”
I frown when his hand slips out from beneath my shirt. He fumbles in his pocket for his phone, standing up and walking several feet away from me to take the call.
“Dr. Kincaid,” he says. He listens intently, his hand gripping the back of his neck. “What about Roberts? I’m not even supposed to be on call right now.” More silence is followed with, “Yeah, give me ten minutes. On my way.”
He ends the call and slides his phone back in his pocket. When he turns to face me, he looks a little disappointed. He points to the door that leads to the stairwell. “I have to . . .”
I nod. “It’s fine.”
He considers me for a moment, and then holds up a finger. “Don’t move,” he says, reaching for his phone again. He walks closer and holds it up as if he’s about to snap a picture of me. I almost object, but I don’t even know why. I’m fully clothed. It just doesn’t feel that way for some reason.
He snaps a picture of me lying in the lounge chair, my arms relaxed above my head. I have no idea what he plans to do with that picture, but I like that he took it. I like that he had the urge to remember what I look like, even though he knows he’ll never see me again.
He stares at the photo on his screen for a few seconds and smiles. I’m half-tempted to take a picture of him in return, but I’m not sure I want a reminder of someone I’ll never see again. The thought of that is a little depressing.
“It was nice meeting you, Lily Bloom. I hope you defy the odds of most dreams and actually accomplish yours.”
I smile, equally saddened and confused by this guy. I’m not sure that I’ve ever spent time with someone like him before—someone of a completely different lifestyle and tax bracket. I probably never will again. But I’m pleasantly surprised to see that we aren’t all that different.
He looks down at his feet for a moment as he stands in somewhat of an unsure pose. It’s as if he’s suspended between the desire to say something else to me and the need to leave. He glances at me one last time—this time without so much of a poker face. I can see the disappointment in the set of his mouth before he turns and walks in the other direction. He opens the door and I can hear his footsteps fade as he rushes down the stairwell. I’m alone on the rooftop once again, but to my surprise, I’m a little saddened by that now.
Lucy—the roommate who loves to hear herself sing—is rushing around the living room, gathering keys, shoes, a pair of sunglasses. I’m seated on the couch, opening up shoeboxes stuffed with some of my old things from when I lived at home. I grabbed them when I was home for my father’s funeral this week.
“You work today?” Lucy asks.
“Nope. I have bereavement leave until Monday.”
She stops in her tracks. “Monday?” She scoffs. “Lucky bitch.”
“Yes, Lucy. I’m so lucky my father died.” I say it sarcastically, of course, but I cringe when I realize it’s not actually very sarcastic.
“You know what I mean,” she mutters. She grabs her purse as she balances on one foot while sliding her shoe onto the other. “I’m not coming home tonight. Staying over at Alex’s house.” The door slams behind her.
We have a lot in common on the surface, but beyond wearing the same size clothes, being the same age, and both having four-letter names that start with an L and end with a Y, there’s not much else there that makes us more than just roommates. I’m okay with that, though. Other than the incessant singing, she’s pretty tolerable. She’s clean and she’s gone a lot. Two of the most important qualities in a roommate.