First Draft Romance

CHAPTER TWO

The bed is warm when I wake up, although my legs are uncovered and bare. I don't have to open my eyes to know that Gina is hogging the covers again. I roll onto my side, facing away from her, and sigh.

Awake. I do not want to be awake.

I try not to rustle the covers or shake the mattress as I stretch slowly. It's still early; I don't want to wake Gina up before she has to be. She needs the sleep, especially after how worn-out she seemed from her first day of work.

I roll over and catch a sharp whiff of her new perfume. She started wearing it about a month ago, but I'm still not quite used to it. She smells like lavender, and some other new scent that I can't quite place—something sharp and floral. It smells good on her, but the newness of it makes me anxious, and I refuse to think about why.

Yeah.... I think I'll just think about Rosalind instead.

I roll back onto my side and, eyes closed, wrap my arms around my torso, my right hand on the opposite shoulder, the other wrapped around my stomach. Yep. That's what I want to think of first thing in the morning. Rosalind. Not Gina, and certainly not her multitudinous past slip-ups.

It's kind of fun. I have to wonder—what is Rosalind like when she first wakes up? I can picture her being one of two ways: either breathtakingly perfect, or breathtakingly imperfect. One of those women who wake up like they do in the movies, with seemingly flawless hair and skin.

Either that, or she's one of the ones who wakes up with a nest of messy hair and eyes caked with shmutz and insanely funky breath, yet somehow manages to remain absolutely breathtakingly beautiful.

I saw some of Rosalind's pajamas yesterday, and holy shit, I am broke. I don't think I've ever felt such expensive fabric in a pair of pajamas. They're something I knew had to exist, but had never seen in person. I wanna sleep in PJs like that—right now, I'm in pants I got from Target like, what, twelve years ago now?

But thoughts of Rosalind and expensive clothes turn my thoughts right back to yesterday, of Rosalind and her laundry room and her stupid, cursed, un-un-unlucky panties. Of the shocked expression on her face when that solemn tear tore through the room. Of the heat burning up my cheeks like wildflame. Of the mole on her left shoulder blade, and of the taut muscles and smooth skin of her back, and of that sweet, easy smile she cast my way.

Seriously, don't worry your pretty little head about it.

Honestly, I am so surprised she didn't fire me yesterday. I would have. Seriously. Bye-bye fucking Birdie.

Should I do something to make it up to her? I most definitely cannot afford to fix or replace her dress for her, and I'm fairly certain that Gina's full wrath would be on me if I were to offer to let her take it out of my paycheck. And with my net worth of "barely over thirty dollars," I'm a little unsure of just how I should be approaching making this up to her.

Hmm. Coffee? Coffee could be doable.

I do the math quickly in my head—a cheap-ish cup of coffee would be like ... a seventh of my liquid net worth right now? Better than having to pay for that dress, I'm sure.

But, fuck. What kind of coffee does Rosalind like? Does she like a bold, sultry dark roast, or does she love being able to taste the floral intricacies of a light roast on her—oh my god, nope. I most definitely have a problem.

Next to me, Gina shifts in her sleep, mumbling something incoherent under her breath. Her back is to me, but her loose, dark waves are fanned out across her pillow.

Gina has a silk pillowcase; mine is cheap cotton, the same one I ended up with freshman year of college. She tends to have a more expensive taste than I do—she has one of those little skin care fridges, for crying out loud—but I think it pays off for her.