Clara placed her hands on her hips. “Socks don’t count.”
He sucked in air between his teeth. “Unfortunately, that’s unclear in the literature.”
“A sock is a nonessential clothing item.”
Mischief entered his gaze. “Only until you’re playing strip poker.”
“Thank you for bringing me coffee.” Clara accepted the mug mostly so he’d stop talking.
“No problem. I didn’t know how you take it . . . but we also don’t have any cream. Or sugar.” He grimaced. “But listen, I’ll take you to the grocery store as soon as you’re done . . .” His eyes tracked the mess she’d made of the bedroom. “. . . redecorating.”
Tired of making eye contact with his dusting of golden chest hair, Clara grabbed the first piece of clothing she could find—a huge old sweatshirt strewn across the back of the desk chair—and threw it with her free hand toward his rippling pectorals.
While he pulled it on, she went to grab his copy of the guidelines.
As soon as she entered the master bedroom, Clara had to force herself not to look at the bed. Everett’s bed. The pillow probably still smelled like him. She took a surreptitious sniff from the doorway. Yep, this whole room smelled like Everett. Irish Spring and the vinyl of hundreds of records.
She shook her head and scanned for notebook paper, finally spotting her draft on the nightstand. Josh had already managed to spill coffee on the corner of the document. If only she’d thought to pack her laminating equipment.
By the time she returned to her room, Josh had managed to cover himself. The sleeves of her Columbia hoodie ended at his elbows. She refused to find him charming.
“I figured you made those as a jumping-off point.” He pointed at her sheet. “We should collaborate on the final copy, no?” The struggle with the sweatshirt had aggravated his already disheveled hair.
An unwelcome image of him, tangled in sheets warm from his body heat, floated across her mind. She took a big gulp of coffee, using the bitter taste to rid herself of the unsettling vision. “Oh, sure.” She handed over the paper. Frankly, she’d assumed he wouldn’t care enough to fight her on any of the line items.
Josh sank onto her bed and reached into his wild nest of hair. From somewhere within the depths of his mane, he uncovered a pair of horn-rimmed glasses and put them on.
“Some of the stuff you’ve got here works.”
Clara bit the inside of her cheek. Josh packed a powerful punch of allure to begin with, but her inner nerd started panting at the sight of him with readers.
“Splitting utilities. Fine. A chart outlining weekly cleaning responsibilities. Very organized. We’ll need to pick up some of these supplies you listed. I don’t think we’ve got organic furniture polish.” His tongue peeked out between his teeth as he scanned the rest of the page, giving the occasional nod. “I see you’ve entrusted me with changing lightbulbs.”
Josh glanced over to where she stood, awkwardly lingering by the doorway, and gave her short frame a once-over. “Makes sense.”
He flipped the sheet. “Quiet hours from midnight to five a.m. Okay. That’s reasonable . . . but you’re missing a bunch of stuff.”
Clara folded her arms. “Like what?”
“Like sex.”
Her pulse broke into a gallop. “What do you mean?”
“Well, what’s the plan if we’re . . . you know.” He made a pumping motion with his fist.
Clara swallowed the lump in her throat. “You mean like a scrunchie on the doorknob?”
His eyebrows shot to his hairline. “What the fuck is a scrunchie?”
In answer, she retrieved one from her makeup bag and flung it at him like a slingshot.
He caught the soft material in front of his chest and tested the hair tie’s durability between his fingers.
Clara averted her eyes again. So he has nice hands. Big whoop. “Haven’t you ever seen an eighties sex comedy?”
“Oh, I see,” Josh said. “I thought they used tube socks.”
“Maybe guys use tube socks. Let’s assume any item decorating the doorknob means do not disturb.” Normally she would have fought against a tacky dorm room signal, but she figured her lack of a sex life would keep her from having to employ this particular rule.
“Okay. That’s cool. Although I’ve gotta warn you, these walls are thin. When I moved in on Sunday, I could hear Everett and the manic pixie dream girl he brought home going at it like I had a front-row ticket.”
Clara inhaled sharply. Of course, she knew Everett hadn’t been celibate for the last ten years, but she hadn’t had cause to picture him with other women . . . and in the bed she had slept in last night. Could she get away with burning the sheets if she replaced them?
“Oh. Shit, I’m sorry,” Josh said.
She must have made a face. Clara quickly schooled her features back to calm.
“If it makes you feel better, she made this super annoying screeching sound when she came.”
Clara fought the urge to gag. “Let’s move on.”
Josh squinted at the ceiling. “Hmm.” He snapped his fingers. “What are you afraid of?”
“Excuse me?”
“Like if you’re afraid of snakes or big dogs or cotton balls, I should know so I can protect you.”
She squinted. “You realize one of those things is not like the others?”
“What about mice, cockroaches, opossums?”
“Exactly how many kinds of vermin do you think live here?”
Josh rolled his shoulders. “I’m trying to prepare myself, as your roommate.”
Clara saw his point. She stared at the carpet. “I’m afraid of driving.”
“But . . . you moved to L.A.?”
Her cheeks grew hot. “Yes. It’s all very stupid. I’ve ruined my life. What are you afraid of?” Her glare, warding off further questioning, must have worked.
Josh grimaced. “Ketchup.”
“You don’t like ketchup?”
“No,” he extended the vowel in emphasis. “I don’t like radishes. I’m afraid of ketchup.”
“That’s not funny. I told you a real thing.”
“I’m not joking! The sight of ketchup skeeves me out the way other people can’t look at bugs. It’s the viscosity or something.” He covered his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ugh, seriously I can’t even talk about it. It’s making my blood run cold.” He held out his forearm, where the hairs stood on end, as evidence.