Page 7 of Irreconcilable Attractions (Westwend Boys #1)

Colton

The morning after I took in a stray human-being, I laid in bed staring at the ceiling like it held the answers to the universe.

How was this my life?

There was a part of me that still wasn’t convinced this wasn’t one big fever dream. Maybe I’d wake up and find out that I never agreed to becoming the patron saint of displaced attorneys.

I could call up my dad and say ‘ Hey, had this wild dream—super funny—you unceremoniously dropped your new hire into my guest bedroom without even asking. You were a total ass about it! Hilarious, right? So glad you’d never actually do that to me, Daddio! ’.

I groaned, scrubbing my hands up and down my face with the subtlety of someone trying to erase their entire life through sheer friction. When my skin was red and borderline raw, I stopped. Staring contest with the ceiling: round two.

Eventually, I admitted defeat and peeled myself out of bed. After taking care of business in my bathroom—thank God for ensuites and built-in delay tactics—I made the slow march toward the kitchen, steeling myself for the awkward reunion.

Turning the corner into the living room, the scent hit me like a freight train full of comfort food. Bacon. Coffee. Something edgy and fancy-sounding.

Then I saw him .

Derek was at the stove, looking stupidly domestic in a dark gray shirt and soft, pale sweatpants that cupped his perfectly rounded ass that I was…

totally not staring at. He looked like he’d walked straight out of a cozy romance novel and into my kitchen.

His hair was still a little tousled from sleep, sticking up in weird angles like it couldn’t decide what to do with itself. Honestly, same.

I closed my eyes and begged for strength. This man was my new roommate. My dad’s employee. You cannot get horny over breakfast . That would violate some roommate agreement, I was sure.

Just as I was trying to convince myself this wasn’t what it looked like, Derek turned slightly and caught sight of me. He lifted his spatula in greeting with a crooked smile.

“Hey, good morning!”

“Morning…” I managed, mentally sending dirty looks at my dick to stay down.

“I made breakfast for us,” He stated, flipping something in the pan with the kind of confidence that should be illegal before eight a.m. “Coffee’s done, too. I assume you drink it since you have this whole fancy set-up.”

He gestured to the all-in-one espresso machine, my baby, on the counter.

“I didn’t make the coffee, though,” he added quickly. “It made itself. Nearly scared the piss out of me. I was digging around for a pan and the thing started hissing and gurgling like it was possessed. Thought the house was haunted.” He shook his head.

That actually got a laugh out of me. A real one.

I slipped past him to doctor my coffee, giving my machine an affectionate pat. It had scared a few of my friends in the past, but that was part of its charm. I’d programmed it to make a shot at a certain time every morning along with brewing a pot for regular coffee. A little gift to future me.

As he finished up what looked to be omelets and plated them with more finesse than I’d ever used in my entire life, I settled into one of the mismatched chairs at the table and watched him work. He moved like someone who actually enjoyed cooking, not like someone just trying to impress a host.

And then I remembered my kitchen. My chaotic, thrifted disaster of a kitchen.

None of my silverware matched and my plates looked like they came from three different grannies estate sales.

Would Derek care? He definitely seemed like the type to judge.

He hadn’t said anything, but I suddenly felt self-conscious and hyperaware of the fact my kitchenware looked like clearance bin rejects.

When I watched him plate all his cooking onto differently styled platters and he still hadn’t said anything, I relaxed marginally.

He deposited the food down across the table, before returning back with a mug of his own coffee.

Speaking of the food… It was insane .

The omelet was practically glowing with chunks of ham, onions, and bell peppers. There were also crisp bacon strips along with a bowl of cut fruit like he was auditioning for some brunch spread on a food blog. Did I even have fruit in the fridge?

I couldn’t remember the last time I had a breakfast like this. Probably sometime in college, when I’d visit home and Mom would make me something with love and a touch of guilt-tripping.

“You didn’t have any cheese in the fridge. Are you lactose intolerant or something?” Derek sat himself across from me.

I cleared my throat, forcing myself to look away from the culinary masterpiece before me.

“No,” I admitted, leaning back a little, mildly embarrassed. “I just go through it quickly.”

Which wasn’t a lie. I did go through cheese fast, but that was mostly because I’d stand in front of the fridge and eat handfuls of the shredded stuff like it was trail mix.

Unhinged? Maybe. Convenient? Absolutely.

Blocks of cheese were even more dangerous.

Especially now there was another person living with me.

I could already imagine Derek’s horrified face as he found a block of cheddar with literal bite marks in it.

The shredded kind was easier to sneak eat and it kept him from having me sent for psychological evaluation. Win, win.

“Thanks for breakfast, by the way,” I said quickly, shifting gears. “You really didn’t have to, but it smells amazing.”

Derek glanced up, giving me a small, polite smile, and nodded like it was a given.

The first bite of the omelet hit me like one of those religious experiences we didn’t talk about in polite company.

Flavors exploded across my tongue, and I had to physically stop myself from letting out an actual groan.

I immediately shoveled another forkful into my mouth while swiping a few strips of bacon like I was afraid he might take them back.

“Okay,” I mumbled around a bite, “This is… annoyingly good. Like, you could open a brunch place and put half the cafes in town out of business.”

Derek raised an eyebrow—he did that a lot—clearly trying not to smile. “You mad about the food or the competition?”

“Little column A, little column B.” I shrugged. “You didn’t say you were a breakfast wizard.”

“You didn’t ask,” he replied simply, sipping his coffee like he didn’t just mic-drop me.

I narrowed my eyes at him, “You holding out on me?”

He smirked. “Guess you’ll have to keep me around and find out.”

Dangerous , I thought, stabbing at another piece of omelet. Dangerous and smug.

The rest of the meal had us slipping into casual small talk; weather, his drive into town, that weird stretch of highway where the billboards advertise nothing but cows. Easy stuff. Comfortable.

Too comfortable .

After we finished eating, I shooed the secret chef out of the kitchen so I could do the dishes. He tried to argue that it was unnecessary. I told him payment for services rendered was absolutely necessary.

You’d think he’d be grateful for my benevolent gesture. Instead, I had to hit him with an ‘ ah-ah-ah ’ finger wag to get him to actually leave. But, he finally relented and headed back to his bedroom to get changed with a disgruntled look on his face.

Still felt weird to think of it as his bedroom.

With the distraction out of the way, cleaning up went quickly. I rinsed and loaded everything into the dishwasher because I wasn’t buying NASA-grade pods to obliterate every molecule of bacon grease. Get used to the pre-rinse, Derek.

The quiet gave me just enough time to reflect on breakfast. Which, yeah… was really good.

But, I’d decided something important while scrubbing plates and questioning the cholesterol levels of two different kinds of pork in one meal.

No weird tension . That was the deal.

I’d convinced myself I wasn’t going to get caught up in some dumb spiral about my new roommate. Derek was just… Derek. And I was just me, trying to be chill with the fact my dad dropkicked an adult human into my life this way.

So, friends vibes it was. No mental rewriting of his resume to include ‘resident heartthrob’, because the reality of this situation was that Derek was likely straighter than a stripper pole… with hopefully far less germs.

Once the dishwasher was humming, I went to get ready into something relaxed and breathable for a lowkey day. That translated into an oversized white t-shirt, black athletic shorts, and a ponytail that was just doing its best. We’d call this look functional neutral .

And then, of course, Derek came walking out his room looking like a fitness ad.

He was in a fitted forest green workout shirt that clung to his upper body like a second skin, and dark joggers that absolutely did not need to be that tailored, accenting his thick thighs and narrow waist. Sunglasses were propped on his dark brown hair that was slicked back.

And for what reason? We were going to play a basketball game, but this was giving sponsored content while I was out here dressed like a background character in a sports drink commercial.

Whatever. It was fine. No big deal. I filled up two tumblers of water, because the Texas heat didn’t care about your outfit, and we headed out.

Some grumbling occurred on the way.

I would neither confirm nor deny if it came from me.

I drove us to a local park with a covered court and grabbed the basketball from my back seat after we parked. I always had one on hand whenever the urge to shoot some hoops hit me, which was admittedly often.

Basketball was one of the few ways I found helped clear my head. There was something about the simple principles of the game that quieted the racing thoughts in my head. All I needed to do was keep the ball moving, breathing, and make the shot.

We made our way onto the court before dropping our things on a nearby bench. Wordlessly, we both began to stretch out our arms and legs, getting the blood flowing.