Page 11

Tealey

“Did I interrupt?” Rad asks, his voice as smooth as jazz, as is his smile that leaves me weak in the knees. It’s probably just the glass of wine I had earlier.

“No. No. Not at all.” What’s a little lie? I wasn’t prepared for Rad Wellington to be standing outside my door, much less showing up out of nowhere on a random Tuesday night. I can’t say I’m bothered by his presence, but a little notice would have been nice.

I take a deep breath and steady myself when he steps inside.

“So, yeah, this is my apartment.” I rush to toss the mask in the garbage. Bending down, I use the side of the toaster to check my appearance. Oh crap! I wipe the food from my face, but when it doesn’t disappear, I lean in for a closer look, only to discover it’s a crumb stuck to the toaster.

I shake my head and quickly swipe over my face again, rub in the serum, and then start plucking the rollers out of my hair. Of all the times I decide to use my spa supplies before the move, naturally, it had to be the night he stops by.

Not that this will do much to make me feel better about how I look right now, but I still try. I toss the rollers in a basket beside the bed and then sit down at the end, trying to act like I’m not freaking out inside. “What brings you by?”

He’s sporting a charcoal-gray suit and white shirt, and his tie hangs loosely around his neck.

His dark hair is disheveled, and there’s a distinctive dusting of scruff covering his jaw from a long day’s work.

As if he couldn’t get more handsome, he proves me wrong.

“I always considered you more of a Monica,” he replies, his gaze skimming over me.

I shift awkwardly, resting one fuzzy house shoe–covered foot on top of the other. “It’s a sleep shirt. Wait, really?”

“Really is it a sleep shirt?”

“No. You think I’m more of a Monica than a Phoebe?”

“Sure,” he replies casually.

Glancing down at the shirt, I’m reminded of when we found these from a street vendor in Times Square.

I love my I’m-a-Phoebe Friends shirt despite its thin fabric and threadbare hem .

. . I just don’t love that I chose to wear it tonight.

It’s not my fault, really, considering Cammie was wearing something equally comfortable.

How was I supposed to know Mr. Eligible Bachelor of the Year, or whatever that award is, would show up on my doorstep. “Marlow bought these for us.”

“Let me guess. She got Rachel, Cammie got Monica, and you were left with Phoebe?”

“You’re very good, Counselor.”

“Thanks. It’s really just that Marlow is predictable.”

I’ve always considered that part of her charm.

She’s . . . reliable that way, which allows me to manage my reactions to some of her outlandish ideas.

Like the time she talked us into pretending we worked for the hotel where Chris Hemsworth was staying so we could try to meet him.

If our street clothes didn’t give us away, the lack of key cards and ability to explain what we were doing to the manager did.

When Chris saw us being berated by the manager, he came over and said we were with him. We scored a meeting, a photo, and he had his driver take us back to our dorm. “I’d say she’s predictably unpredictable.”

Narrowing his eyes above a slight grin, he asks, “Marlow or Phoebe?”

“You’re probably right on both.” I hold up a finger. “Also, I like Phoebe. She’s great—funny and artistic. I’m okay with being a Phoebe in my trio. But whatever.” I wave away the nonsense filling my brain.

As if he’s afraid to take another step, he remains standing near the door.

“The futon is covered, but you can sit here?” I pop up and offer him the end of the bed. “Or I have a chair over there if you’d like?”

“I’m good.” After he takes in my tiny apartment, his brown eyes land back on mine.

I don’t make apologies for what I can’t afford, but a tinge of embarrassment winds its way through my veins. He lives in the lap of luxury, and here I am, not even making ends meet in my one-room apartment. I shift under his curious gaze and look down.

“What brings you by?”

Bending, he catches my eyes. “You okay, Bell?”

There’s been no judgment on his behalf. There never has been, so I’m not sure why I would feel even a hint of shame. I raise my chin and nod. “I’m fine.”

“I wanted to see how the packing was going.” He can easily see over my head to scope out the place because he’s tall like that.

Tall and dark.

Handsome.

Intelligent.

I digress . . . “I’m almost done.” I move to the kitchenette to busy myself. “Make yourself at home. It’s a mess in here, so you’re welcome to sit wherever you find space.”

“Don’t worry about me,” he says as he walks toward the window. Moving the curtain to the side with his fingers, he spreads the blinds and looks down the street.

Rad Wellington is too big for this space.

He’s meant for wide-open lofts, penthouses, and rooftop terraces.

It’s utterly fascinating to see him in my apartment.

The entire place could fit in his spare room.

Makes me wonder how it will feel to be living in his space—airy and spacious or like I’m staying in an Airbnb, where it gives the facade of feeling at home.

“It’s been a while since you’ve been here, huh? ”

Glancing back, he says, “I don’t know that I’ve ever been here.” He moves around a stack of boxes and finds the end of the futon in front of him.

I get two bottles of beer from the fridge, and when I turn back, I catch him searching the apartment. I’m assuming over the lack of space a man his size requires. “It’s a . . . cozy place.” He’s polite enough to call it cozy versus tiny. “Why haven’t I been here before?”

Shrugging, I set the bottles on the counter and dig through a drawer for the bottle opener.

“I don’t know. Maybe because it’s completely out of your way?

” A draft breeze runs across my bum, and I lower my arms, realizing I’ve been flashing him my ass.

I duck behind a smaller stack of boxes and tug at the hem of my shirt.

With my shorts being closer to him than me, I’m stuck.

His eyes narrow as he runs his fingers through his hair. “What are you doing?”

My spine stiffens. “Just standing here?”

Touching his chest, he angles his head. “Are you asking me?”

“The English language deems that it was indeed a question, but I didn’t mean to pose one.”

Scratching the bridge of his nose, he furrows his brow. “Why are you hiding behind those boxes?”

“I’m uh . . .” Sighing, I ask, “Do you mind closing your eyes for one minute. I need to grab a pair of shorts, and unfortunately, those shorts are closer to you.”

He looks to his side and reaches down to a pile of clothes I’d dumped on the futon earlier.

The lace of a hot pink thong wraps around his finger, and he stills.

I stop breathing altogether, frozen to the spot—horrified, mortified, and every other fied —that he’s seeing my underwear for the first time.

Sure, I wear comfy clothes on the daily, but I like to keep things spicy underneath. Sue me . . . oh wait, he’s a lawyer and could.

When the slyest of smirks plays along his lips, my heart thunders in my chest until he sets it to the side to take hold of a turquoise pair of running shorts and asks, “These?”

I press my hand to my forehead and gasp for air. “Those work.” He tosses them to me and then turns just before I reach for them. After slipping them on, I step out of hiding. “All good.”

His hands are in his pockets, and he’s looking as dapper as ever. “Are you going to give me a tour?”

“Sure.” I laugh, moving next to the bed. “Look left, now right. That’s the kitchen. Behind me is the bedroom. Behind you is the living room. That concludes our tour for today. Don’t forget to tip your guide.” I give him a wink and click my tongue.

There’s a sweetness to his smile that’s not often seen. Although I do remember seeing it last night when we were on the roof deck. It looks nice on him.

He chuckles. “Tipping the tour guide. You might be more Phoebe than I realized.”

“Probably. Oh! I have beer . Would you like one? I also have one or two pieces of pizza left from dinner if you’re hungry. Cammie ordered an extra large.”

“You don’t have to go to any trouble.”

“It’s no trouble, Rad.” I return to the drawer and start searching through the junk to find the bottle opener again.

He comes to stand beside me, his arm brushing against mine. He twists the metal top off one bottle and then the other. “They’re twist off.”

“Ah. Guess it’s obvious I only keep beer in the fridge for company.”

There’s no great rush to leave. Standing next to each other, he glances over, giving me a charming boyish smile.

It reminds me of when we were in college with no real responsibilities in life.

Grades and part-time jobs. Afternoons spent studying in Central Park and lattes down in Washington Square. The six of us were inseparable.

Life loves throwing curveballs. All we can do is step up to the plate and swing. “Pizza?”

“No, I’m good,” he says, now grinning to himself. He returns to the futon and pushes the clothes pile to the side before sitting down. “You like pizza, but it looks like you cook, too.”

I settle on the bed, leaning against the headboard, but glance at the dishes in the sink. “Yeah, I’m broke, so I have to cook.”

“You meet us out for meals.”

I laugh lightly, and then say, “That’s why I eat in the rest of the time.” When he doesn’t laugh, I bite my lip, feeling awkward. “I do enjoy cooking, though, so it works out.”

“You can cook whenever you want when you move in.” The way his head tilts down and his eyes study me, I’m curious what he’s thinking. “I have a lot of top-of-the-line cookware that never gets any action.”

“I can relate,” I say under my breath.

“What?”

Ack! “Um, I can make use of those pots and pans. Cooking for two will be more fun than for one.”

I stare at him while he takes a long pull from the bottle.

Oh.

My.

God.

Captivated by the way the light brings out the golden centers of his eyes, I stare at him. His magnetism has my tummy tightening. Those eyes, his broad shoulders, the tailored suit, sexy-messy hair, and darkening eyes as they devour me with a look—Good lord, this man is perfection.

Why have I never been so affected by how utterly gorgeous he is before?

I’ve always thought he was incredibly attractive, but we’re friends. He’s gone out of his way to make sure there was no opportunity for it to be anything else, and honestly, that’s probably for the best.

So why am I suddenly wishing we could be more?

My insides tighten.

It’s a futile thought. I know it.

We can’t.

We shouldn’t.

I shouldn’t. I should leave the man alone. He clearly has enough attention from the world and doesn’t need me drooling all over him. Especially since he’s being so kind and offering me a place to stay.

Be smart, Tealey. And then mop up the drool when he leaves.

I force myself to look away from him, then down two large gulps of beer, praying he won’t second-guess his offer to me after my awkwardness. When I turn back— Damn, why does he have to be so hot?

He smirks and just about does me in, but then he licks his lips, and I find myself biting mine. He asks, “Should I open a window? You look a bit flush.”

“I’m fine. So fine.” I clamp my mouth shut, turning my gaze to the ceiling. What am I doing?

He says, “It will be fun to have a roommate.”

“Roommate.” Good reminder. Great, in fact.

Roommates.

Friends. Only friends.

But if we’re only friends, why am I now staring at him like there’s a possibility of more?

God, I’m in so much trouble .