Page 11

Chapter Eleven

Gabriel

Seventeen days down; seventy-three to go.

I’ve got my mind set on this ninety-day trial, so I can look back on everything that’s happened to see if it’s worth the stress. If my stress level is higher than it was trying to pay the bills on my own, Storm has to go. But if it’s less than me struggling to pay the bills, I suppose he can stay.

I have a running list of mishaps.

Two incidents of leaving the toilet seat up. Even though he has his own bathroom downstairs, he prefers to use the one up there. That’s fine, as long as there isn’t another event of leaving the seat up. If it does, I’ll ban him from that bathroom and he’ll need to go downstairs to do his business. Thankfully, I noticed it before sitting and my ass did not touch the water.

He has made a mess somewhere in the house that isn’t his room ten times, but I will say he cleaned them all up. Though, out of those ten times, three times he missed spots and I had to go over them. So, not entirely an issue, but it’s still an inconvenience. It’s not difficult to clean as you go, but he doesn’t understand that concept. Not yet, anyway, because I do plan to drill it into him.

I have seen him naked six more times, which is excessive considering he’s only been here a little over two weeks. That is approximately one occurrence every two days, and since it didn’t happen yesterday, that means it’s likely to happen today. I should not have to live my life in fear!

I have not caught him in the act of doing that again, and for that I am grateful. Go figure. I am relieved to not find my roommate touching himself inappropriately. What a thing to be happy about.

“What is my life?” I mutter to myself as I place the piece of soggy bread in the pan. It’s Wednesday, meaning it’s French Toast day.

“Morning, Gabe.”

I sigh quietly. “Gabriel. And good morning.”

“I’ll get it right one of these days.”

“Doubtful,” I mutter.

I don’t hate the guy. He’s tolerable. A little too happy, too carefree and messy, and is way too comfortable being naked. But all in all? He’s not terrible. My underwear doesn't seem to have been disturbed. I check them every time I come home and they’re still in place, not a pair missing.

“What are we having this morning?” he asks, grabbing a coffee pod from the cabinet and popping it into the machine.

“It’s Wednesday.”

“Not what I asked.”

“This is your second Wednesday here. You can’t remember what you ate last Wednesday?” I raise a brow, turning toward him.

“Gabe, I don’t remember what I ate yesterday.”

I groan. “Gabriel.”

“Right, sorry.”

He puts a mug under the spout and presses the button to start it.

“French Toast.”

“Oh yeah! I remember now. I said it was the best I’d ever had.”

“Not much of a compliment considering you’d only ever had frozen French Toast sticks .”

He shrugs, leaning against the counter. My gaze dips to the way the muscles in his forearms tense. They aren’t too thick or too thin. Dark hair, veins. They’re nice arms. Really nice arms. Especially his biceps. They’re more toned than mine, but not so much that it’s too much. He has no issue walking through a door, which is good. Too many muscles are scary.

“What can I say? I was a picky eater as a kid.”

I shake out of it, turning my gaze back to the pan and flipping the pieces of bread.

Was I just checking him out? What is wrong with me? I don’t do that. Not only because he’s a guy, but because he’s a person and I don’t like people.

“Yeah,” I say. The word comes out raspy, so I clear my throat.

“What’s your secret?”

“Huh?” I look up at him because he’s now very close. Much closer than he was a moment ago.

“The French Toast. How is it so good?”

Why is his voice so low all of a sudden?

“Oh, um... I don’t know. It’s just basic French Toast.”

He moves even closer, stopping inches from me, and I get a whiff of this intoxicating scent that is just him mixed with a hint of cedar, which is the body wash he uses. I scoped it out while showering the other day because it just smells so damn good. It’s much better than the original clean scent I use.

“Well, what’s in it? I’ve never made it before.”

Why is he so close? He’s so freaking close. Why?

And why does he smell so good ?

“Uh, just the basic stuff.”

“You said that. What is the basic stuff, Gabriel?”

My head jerks in his direction. I smell the mint on his breath—at least he’s hygienic. That is a plus. We’re nearly touching and I feel the warmth from his body radiating from him, reaching my skin.

Why is he so close?

His lips turn up in the smallest smirk, causing my gaze to dart to them. They look so soft. Softer than Tara’s. Softer than mine, too, I’d bet. As soon as I look at them, I bring my gaze back to his eyes and see something there. Excitement? But why? Is he laughing at me? For what? Is there something on my face?

I pull my gaze away, pushing my glasses up before answering, “Uh, eggs. Milk.”

“That it?” His voice is smooth, low.

“Vanilla.”

“Vanilla is good.”

“Pinch of salt. Dash of cinnamon.”

“Sounds delicious.”

My mouth opens as I look at him, our noses almost touching, but I don’t know what to say. I have no words. I answered his question, yet it feels like I’m supposed to say something.

The coffee machine beeps, letting us know the cup is finished brewing. Storm holds my stare for just a second longer before turning and going to his coffee.

“How long until it’s done?” he asks, tone perfectly normal.

What the…

Looking down at the pan, I give them another flip. They’re the right color, so I add them to the plate.

“You can have this one.”

“You sure?”

“Mhm. Yep.” I slide the plate across the counter, then focus on cooking the rest of the French Toast so I can eat and leave. I’m already running off schedule because I’m taking too long to cook. A few minutes later, the next batch is done. I plate them and take it to the table, but stop short. Storm is sitting there, his food in front of him, and he’s scrolling on his phone.

“Is something wrong with it?”

He looks up at me without moving his head. “Wrong?”

“The food. You haven’t eaten.”

“I was waiting for you.” He smiles at me and it throws me for a loop. “Are you going to come sit?”

“Yeah, I am.” I shake out of it and sit. Why is he being so weird this morning? It’s not normal. Not right. What’s even worse is the way it’s bothering me. My whole day is going to be ruined because of this.

Once I sit, Storm puts his phone down and digs into his food. He continuously makes soft moaning sounds, thoroughly enjoying his food. I should make this more often.

No. No, I should not. Make food to hear him moan? That’s insane. Crazy. I can’t think of things like that. It’s just not right.

I quickly finish eating, wash my plate, and hurry out of the kitchen. I grab my things and head for the door, wondering if I’m going to come back to his breakfast dishes in the sink or if he’ll be nice enough to wash them. Usually I do them before I leave, so I can have a clear mind about it. Hopefully this won’t bother me all day…

“Have a good day at work!” he calls out as I step onto the porch. I stumble.

“Th-thanks!” I call back before hurrying to my car.

“He’s making me uncomfortable, Marta.”

“Because he’s being nice? Gabriel, what is wrong with you?”

I shake my head. “Too many things.”

“You know that’s not what I meant. It was rhetorical.”

“You know I hate rhetorical questions.” I sigh, picking up my sandwich and taking a bite. The tomato is a little too mushy for my likings, but the last time I complained about that to the kitchen, they laughed in my face.

“I don’t understand why you have to keep complaining about him. It’s okay to like him, you know.”

“I don’t like him,” I say quickly. Too quickly, it seems, because Marta eyes me carefully. “I just mean we aren’t friends. I don’t want to be friends with him. We live together because he’s helping with the rent—that’s it.”

“Right. Helping with the rent. I get it.”

“There’s nothing to get.” I take another bite and wash it down with my water.

“Okay, sure.” Marta’s pager beeps, and she picks it from the table to look at it. “Crap. I gotta go.” She hurries out of her seat but doubles back before getting too far, and rambles off, “Maybe you should consider being friends with him, Gabriel. You could use more friends. It’ll be good for you.”

She jogs off. How anyone can live like that, I’ll never understand.

My brothers work in offices, all of them different types of doctors, so their schedules are decent. But they go into on-call rotations for their offices, and there is no way I could be on call for anything. What if I’m in the middle of a shower and get a call that is emergent? Or one in the middle of the night? I need my sleep. I can’t handle that sort of nonsense. Nor do I want to. I’m perfectly content with my job. It’s the right amount of fast-paced, so I can do things at my own speed. And the hours are set. The worst that happens is I get stuck a little late when someone doesn’t show up, but when that happens they always pull from the other labs, so it isn’t long.

Finishing up my lunch, I clean my mess and head back to the lab. Marta’s last words to me keep ringing through my head, distracting me from work.

Why do I need more friends? Why will it be good for me? I’m fine with only her as a friend. I don’t need more. I’m not the kind of person who needs a lot of friends or has to go out and do things. What if I try being friends with him, and he makes me do things I don’t want to do? I don’t need to be guilted into things. What’s good about Marta is she doesn’t do that. She’s busy being an ER doctor, a wife, and a mother. She doesn’t have time to pester me for more than what I’m comfortable with. No, friends are not what I need. Not at all.

The rest of my shift goes by quickly, and when I get home, I find the strangest thing.

Storm is sitting on a porch swing that most certainly wasn’t there when I left for work this morning, reading a book.