Romantically Entangled

Chapter 10

Nicki

Sunlight forces my eyes open, and for a second, I again don't know where I am.

Then I grab my phone in a panic to check the time. It's nine o'clock. I overslept, big time.

"Shit!" I grumble, jumping out of bed and grabbing a towel from one of my bins before I race to the shower.

I should already be at the newspaper. I wanted to be there when the editor, Jason Reed, arrived.

Before he got busy and had an excuse not to talk to me.

Ten minutes later, I hit the stairs, my wet hair in a ponytail, and my laptop and a couple of books I'll need for my first day of classes stuffed into my backpack.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafts into my nostrils as I reach the living room, and I remember the bananas and protein bars I picked up at the store.

A five-minute delay for breakfast probably won't make much difference at this point. And I'm starving.

I don't want my stomach growling like crazy while I'm trying to make my pitch to Jason.

I veer into the kitchen, almost colliding with Bey, who is leaning against the counter with her legs crossed. She is still only wearing a pair of plaid boxers and sports bra.

I sure wish the girl would keep her shirt on.

"Whoa," Bey exclaims, lifting her steaming coffee mug out of the way just in time, "slow down there, roomie."

She smells citrusy and kind of soapy. Her blonde hair is wet.

And there's that stomach, that chest, those arms.

I feel myself blushing for what must be the dozenth time since we met yesterday.

"Oh, sorry," I gasp, stepping back.

I look behind me when I hear a dog yelp. Munchie is looking up at me, wagging his tail.

"Yikes," I say, "sorry, Munchie. I didn't mean to step on you, buddy."

I lean down to pet the dog's head, then glance at Bey, wondering how bad my tired, makeup-free face looks to him.

Nicki Maraj. Just stop it.

Of all the things I should be worried about, I can't believe I'm wasting time on what Bey thinks of me without makeup.

But even a full-name self-lecture probably won't stop me from doing it.

And it sure isn't stopping my eyes from lingering, again, on Bey's caramel, muscular legs.

She sure looks good in those bras and boxers. She probably looks even better wearing nothing at all.

Irritated by my wayward thoughts, I start opening the dilapidated cabinets, searching for another coffee mug.

But all I find is a mishmash of plastic beer cups, Chinese food soup containers, and, weirdly, a set of Hello Kitty plates.

"We don't have much in the way of real dishes," Bey says, apologetically, reaching on top of the fridge for a package of Styrofoam cups.

"And what we do have is usually dirty. Thanks mainly to Kelly."

I notice again Bey's disdainful tone when she mentions Kelly.

It makes me wonder what's the story between the two of them.

Based on my limited interaction with my housemate, though, I guess I shouldn't be surprised. Kelly seems a lot less serious.

Bey pours a cup of coffee from a drip coffeemaker on the counter and hands it to me.

"Pretty sure I have the only actual mug in the house," she says, lifting it to show me.

The mug is oversized, white, with the words UNITED STATES ARMY in gold and an American flag. There's a chip on the top of the handle.

"I guard this one with my life," she adds with a grin. "But I might consider loaning it to you, when I'm not using it, of course."

It seems impossible not to return his infectious smile.

"Thanks," I murmur, letting my backpack slide to the floor and wrapping my hands around the Styrofoam.

I stand there, sipping with my eyes closed, wishing today was already over with.

When I open my eyes, Bey's staring intently at me.

"So, Nicki, how'd you sleep your first night?"

I shrug, savoring another sip, debating whether to answer truthfully.

"Not great," I finally say. "Bad dreams." I leave out, of course, the part about soothing my turmoil last night by thinking of her.

Bey nods, looking down into her cup.

I stare at her lips, hovering over the steam from her coffee, thinking about how she kissed me on the roof. About how good it felt.

"Yeah," she responds after a pause, her voice a husky whisper. "I know all about bad dreams."

Then there's an expectant silence between us. I wonder if she's about to share something with me. If she's maybe going to tell me how she got those scars.

The would-be journalist in me wants to hear that story.

But the rest of me suddenly doesn't. Not right now. I'm on overload with Bey. Physically and emotionally.

Just being around her seems to turn me upside down. I can't process any more from her right now.

And I am late.

I set my cup on the counter and open the cabinet, where I stashed my small supply of food.

"I'm really late," I mumble before tearing open a protein bar and peeling a banana and shoving them into my mouth. "I have to go."

I take a last sip of coffee and look around for the trash. Bey points at a tall, overflowing can on the other side of the fridge.

I push my cup into the middle of the pile, then watch it slide off on to the stained linoleum floor.

"Don't worry about it," Bey sighs. "I'll be doing some more cleaning today. Didn't manage to do much yesterday.

"Megan and Kelly damn well better help me. We've got a lot to do to get ready for this weekend."

I'm bending down to pick up my backpack when she says that, and my stomach lurches.

"There's another party this weekend?" I can hear the dread in my voice.

"Yes, ma'am. We always throw a helluva Labor Day weekend party." She chuckles as I roll my eyes. "I did warn you, Nicki."

She raises her mug to her lips as her eyes twinkle. "Hey," she suggests, "you could cover the party for the paper. That's something people around here might actually want to read about."

"Uh, no," I say, raising my eyebrows for emphasis.

I probably sound like a snot. But there's no way in hell I'd offer to cover some dumb college party, even if I do get a reporter job.

"And you'll get to hear me play a mean bass," Bey goes on as if she didn't hear me.

She hits me with that tantalizing smile, and I feel my insides start to melt.

I've so got to get control of myself.

"Maybe I'll even sing that song for you at the party." She's still trying to convince me.

"We'll see," I manage to reply, stepping toward the door. "Now, I've really got to go. Bye, Bey. And. . .um, thanks for the coffee."

"Hey, no problem. And good luck at the newspaper."

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