Let your homeless best friend stay with you, he said. Being roommates will be fun, he said. It's only temporary, he said.
He never said I'd fall for him.
You know what isn't 'temporary?' The endless stream of dirty socks in my bathroom and empty food packets under the sofa—and don't even get me started on the hot guys who take over my living room every Sunday to watch sports.
I can't take anymore.
So I propose a roommate agreement. One that will bring peace and order back to my life, complete with rules that might just stop my newfound crush on my best friend in its tracks.
After all, there’s only so many times you can see your best friend naked before you start to lose your mind.
Rules. They're meant to be broken... Aren't they?
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Shelby shut the door with a click and peered over at me. “What are you writing? If it’s permission to use the feather duster as a sex toy, the answer is no. Unless you buy your own, but if you haven’t figured out where the laundry room is yet, I doubt you’ll find where to buy one.”
She was as funny as a car crash, this one.
“Hilarious,” I drawled. “No, I’m making amendments as I go. I added a new rule.”
“You added a new rule?” She raised one dark eyebrow and walked over, hovering over me. “All right, what is it?”
“Decent clothes must be worn. Do you know how many times I wake up early on a morning to open the gym and find you basically in your underwear in the kitchen?”
“Basically in my underwear? Who are you seeing in the kitchen? I wear shorts and a tank top at the very least.”
“Yes, but the shorts barely cover your ass, and you’re sure as hell not wearing a bra.”
She paused, eyes glittering as she said, “And why are you looking at my ass and my boobs?”
That was an excellent question.
“Because there’s nowhere else to look!” I rushed out before my stupid cock could get any ideas. “Look, waking up in the morning can be challenging for a guy.”
She stared at me.
“I don’t need to get up for a coffee with… you know.” I motioned to my groin. “And see you half-clothed.”
She flicked her hair over her shoulder and walked to the kitchen, turning her back to me. “Why does it matter? I’m your best friend. I hardly think your little friend is remotely interested in whether or not I’m wearing a bra.”
Yeah, well, he is.
“Fine. If I have to wake up and see your perky nipples prancing around the kitchen, I’m going to stroll around in my underwear so you can get a good view of my morning glory.”
She spun, lifting up a finger. Her cheeks were flushed, and she had to swallow before she could speak. “My nipples do not prance. They are not horses.”
“Also, I have no desire to have anything to do with your morning erection, much less get a good view of it, thank you very much.”
“Have I told you that you’re cute when you blush?”
“Have I told you that you’d be a cute dead guy?”
I laughed, leaning back on the sofa. “C’mon, Shelbs. We need to respect each other’s privacy. You don’t want to see my cock hard over your breakfast, and I don’t want to see your nipples standing to attention when I make a coffee.”
She sighed. “Why did I ever let you move in again?”
“Because I was going to be homeless and you’re the best friend ever?”
About the Author: Emma Hart
Emma Hart is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over thirty novels and has been translated into several different languages.
She is a mother, wife, lover of wine, Pink Goddess, and valiant rescuer of wild baby hedgehogs.
Emma prides herself on her realistic, snarky smut, with comebacks that would make a PMS-ing teenage girl proud.
Yes, really. She's that sarcastic.
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