More Than a Memory (3 page)

O
livia walks away
and my gaze drifts down to the subtle sway of her hips before dropping to her ass. I almost laugh at myself. She’s in sweats and an over-sized hoodie, not even the slightest hint of her curves, or possible lack thereof, and I can’t keep my eyes off her. There isn’t a drop of makeup on her face and her hair is a tangled mess on top of her head, stray strands hanging out everywhere, obviously not trying to impress me in the slightest, yet here I am, checking out an ass I can’t see.

I push away from the island and gather our plates, berating myself for finding Olivia to be so gorgeous. She’s not single. She’s going to talk to her boyfriend. And I’m just grateful my jeans are restrictive, since I couldn’t stop the grunt that escaped my lips unchecked when she bent over, exposing a sliver of silky skin.

I wash the dishes and put them in the dishwasher to be washed again, shaking my head at how freaking ridiculous her rules are. After clearing the trash and cleaning up the rest of the kitchen, I head back to my room to change. Since I drove here straight from my parents’ house, I haven’t had a chance to check out the town, or campus.

Mumbling from Olivia’s room catches my attention as I walk past her door. I should be a good roommate and just keep walking, but the baritone voice on the other side of the door makes me curious.

“Duncan,” Olivia grouses. Even her whiny voice is hot. I can imagine her whining for me to… I shake my head to clear those thoughts.
Wasn’t I just acknowledging her boyfriend and how she’s off-limits?

“I’m sorry, sweet cheeks.”
Sweet cheeks? Seriously, dude?
“I’d be there if I could. I’ll be home soon.”

“I’m just bored,” she sighs in exasperation.

I lean in closer, leaving less than an inch between my ear and the surface of the door, recognizing how creepy this is. Too bad that’s not going to stop me from listening—and now questioning Emerson’s claims of the high amounts of estrogen in our mother’s womb.

“I know you are. Call one of the girls, go to a movie or something. When was the last time you left the apartment?” I don’t hear her respond. “That look tells me you’ve been cooped up so long, you can’t even remember. You need to get out and live a little.”

“I don’t have any interest,” is her response. “Why don’t I just fly there?”

“Can’t happen, sweet cheeks. You know what my parents said.”

“They’re just trying to keep us apart. You even told me that yourself. I’m going nuts being away from you,” she says, emotion evident in her pleading voice.

“They’re paying for this, Olivia. If you want me home at all, I have to go by their rules. You know that. We talk about it almost every day.” The growing frustration in his tone fills her room as his voice gets louder.

I leave the hallway to change for a run, their conversation becoming muffled through our shared wall. Although it makes me feel less creepy, the thin walls are going to be a problem.

“Bringing a girl over is going to suck,” I mumble as I tie my sneakers, then wonder if she has a “no members of the opposite sex in the apartment” rule. I huff at the thought. She may insist that I prewash dishes, but I’ll be damned if I can’t fuck in my own room.

Grabbing my phone and earbuds, I head out of the apartment toward campus.

* * *

“
D
amn it
,” I mutter to myself when I pull open the heavy door, interrupting the baseball meeting already in full swing.

Coach looks up and frowns in my direction, but continues to talk to the team. If I didn’t waste five minutes this morning pre-washing my to-be-washed dishes, I would’ve made it on time.

If Olivia had been around this morning, she would’ve gotten a little piece of my mind.

I grab a seat, but only seem to focus on Coach when he says something important. At least I have that going for me. I can’t seem to let go of the frustration I feel over my current living situation and the effect my tardiness will have on my time here. Her rules may have just fucked my college baseball career.

“Rough start,” the guy sitting behind me says after Coach dismisses the meeting. I turn to face my new teammate, who sticks his hand out. “Liam Ashford, third base.”

“Bryson Daniels, short stop,” I say, shaking his proffered hand.

“Don’t worry about Coach,” he says, nodding toward the empty lectern. “He’ll forget you were late before he sees you again. Just don’t be late for practice, and never miss a game.”

Sound advice.

“Thanks, man,” I say, rising from my seat, my mood lifting a fraction. As I make my way toward the exit, Liam follows.

“You coming to the party Sunday night?” He pushes the door leading out of the complex hard enough for both of us to clear it before it closes.

“Sunday night? As in the day before school starts?” The extracurricular festivities at La Grande never started until after the month long honeymoon ended at the beginning of each semester. “Don’t the parties start after the first week, at least?”

He laughs. “Any excuse to party here, man.”

We descend the steps and begin walking down the sidewalk.

“Dorms?” he asks, pointing across campus.

“Nope. I’m in an apartment over on twenty-first.”

“Alone?”

“No, I have a roommate. Female, hot as fuck. Has a boyfriend, though.”

“Don’t get mixed up in that shit, bro. Shitting where you eat is never a good thing.”

“You’re telling me.” I run my hand over the top of my head. “We just met yesterday, but I get the feeling she’s going to pretty much keep to herself.”

“Lucky bastard. My dorm mate is an asshole. Well, if you don’t want to hit the party Sunday, there’s another one next weekend,” he offers. “And the weekend after that. Pretty much always a party happening somewhere.”

“Oh, I’m interested in parties,” I confirm with a wide smile. Hell, I wish I was going to the one on Sunday, but responsibility forces my hand. “I’m only sitting the first one out because I still have to get unpacked.”

We exchange phone numbers before he takes off toward the dorms. I turn back around to sit on the steps leading into the sports complex. The last thing I want to do is head back to the apartment.

I pull up my phone and check emails, finding the one from Olivia I’ve been dreading. I wait for Olivia’s emailed list of rules to load, which she was generous enough to send in an easily printable PDF format. Letting my eyes wander, I notice a small memorial garden off to the side of the steps. Bright flowers and a small plaque catch my eye.

My phone buzzes in my hand, alerting me to another email.
Corrected List of Ground Rules.
I groan, my mood plummeting straight back to pissed off at the few dozen rules she probably forgot. Before I pull that one up to load, I consider making my own list of ridiculous rules. I wonder how she would feel about “No Wine Wednesday” or “No Shirt Saturday”. I can easily claim religious requirements.

Taking a deep, cleansing breath, I pull up the list and brace myself for what’s to come.

I laugh out loud at the structure of it. There’s a header, return address, and the damn thing is color coded by order of importance.

Reading through the list, I realize most of her requirements are about cleanliness. I’m now certain she’s a germaphobe. The list begins to branch away from her desperate need to keep things clean, making it easy to tell where her added items begin. When I see “No porn/sex in the living room”, I can’t help but laugh. Does she actually think I’d whip my junk out on the couch and rub one out?

Girls coming over are okay, I just can’t bang them on the couch. I’m not really interested in having an audience, so that rule doesn’t bother me in the slightest.

The final rule on the list, “No parties of any kind or groups larger than three people”, makes my brow furrow. The apartment is so small, three damn people would be about all it could hold. I can’t seem to withhold a sigh as I walk back to the apartment. Living with Olivia Dawson may be easy on my eyes, but she’s going to drive me crazy.

I
t’s been
several days since Bryson showed up, and I’m beginning to think this roommate thing will actually work out. He’s pretty much kept to himself, and although he hasn’t gotten all of the rules down a hundred percent, he’s trying. The only issue is how thin the walls are. Though it’s unintentional on his part, Bryson wakes me up every morning when he’s getting ready. I can tell he’s trying to be quiet, but I’m a light sleeper and some sounds can’t be muffled. So I lie in bed awake from the second his alarm goes off until I hear the front door close and the lock click into place.

After he left this morning, I couldn’t go back to sleep. I ended up on the couch watching TV and drinking coffee, which lasted about an hour before I fell back asleep. My sleep cycle has been disrupted for months. I don’t go to bed and sleep for hours at a time like most people. I tend to live from one three-hour nap to the next. I have no schedule, no obligations, and nowhere to be, so I just sleep when I get tired.

I open my laptop and a second later, the door opens and Bryson walks in. The man is gorgeous. I’ve tried to ignore it, rationalize it, and even deny it, but it can’t be done.

His tousled dark hair is messy perfection, shorter on the sides and much longer on top. A clean-shaven, strong jaw and plush lips are appealing even in profile as he closes the door behind him. He drops his keys and change into a small bowl he’s placed on the entry table near the front door. Thick fingers reach into his back pocket to pull out his wallet and he casually drops that into the bowl as well.

Surprise meets his gold-speckled eyes when he sees me sitting on the couch. We haven’t seen each other much since he moved in, so finding me on the couch must shock him. A big, strong hand grips the strap of his backpack as he lowers it to the floor. I watch the movement in awe, unable to resist the sight of his muscled forearm. I’ve always thought the best features on a man are his hands and arms, and Bryson has them in spades. My eyes continue to wander, taking in his thigh-gripping jeans and tight t-shirt until meeting his amused gaze. I look away, embarrassed at getting caught checking him out.

“Hey,” he says as a grin spreads across his face. He sighs and drops into the armchair. “First day of class. Boring as usual.”

I blow out a small breath, relieved he didn’t call me out on my blatant perusal, and pull my legs up, tucking them closer to my body. My eyes follow the Sony emblem traveling across the black screen of the TV, unable to look at him. I have no idea why he makes me uncomfortable, but I know it’s my issue and not something he’s done. I fight the urge to get up and go to my room. As much as I want to, I don’t want to seem rude. I tuck the blanket covering me tighter around my body, shielding myself from the discomfort I feel whenever we’re in the same room.

“When do your classes start? This evening?” He props his sneakered feet up on the edge of the coffee table and pulls them back to the floor at my chastising look.

“I don’t go to school,” I mumble, eyeing the entry to the hallway leading to my room. I should’ve left when he first walked in.

“How old are you?” he asks, his eyes studying my face harder. “You don’t look old enough to have graduated already.” Common misconception. I’m a young woman living two blocks from a college.

I frown in his direction. The last thing I need is to get all cozy with the hot roommate. Just the idea of it makes me uneasy. He waits patiently and the slight lift of his eyebrow lets me know he’ll wait all day if he has to.

“Nineteen,” I say, giving in. “Twenty in March.”

“I turn twenty-one in October,” he shares, unprompted. “I’m majoring in business, just in case the whole pro-baseball player thing doesn’t happen for me. What are your life plans?”

I can’t help the humorless laugh that bubbles up from my throat. “We haven’t known each other a week and already a deep conversation?”

This is the last thing I want to talk about. I refuse to have this conversation with my own mother, so there’s no chance of getting into it with a man who’s practically a stranger. I look around the room, my mind scrambling to think of some way to divert his attention off of me, but I come up empty-handed.

“What you’re saying is you’re undecided? On sabbatical? I thought most girls have their entire lives planned out by this point.”

I close my eyes against his words. I could argue that my whole life
is
planned out already, but plans change, whether you object to the new direction or not.

I say the only thing I can think of to shut down the conversation. “My parents are rich, so I don’t have to work.”

Although this would normally turn most guys off, he seems unfazed by my admission, but I’m unwilling to stick around for more questions. I don’t feel like he’s grilling me for information. It’s more just friendly conversation, ice breakers of a sort to get to know each other better, but share time is over.

I gather my laptop and bottle of water. As I stand from the couch, the blanket once covering my legs falls away and I immediately regret coming to the living room this morning in my pajamas as Bryson’s eyes linger on my legs. I didn’t take into consideration the inappropriate length of my shorts or the possibility that he would be home before I had the chance to change. I blame the impromptu nap earlier for losing track of time.

“Jesus,” he mutters, refusing to pull his eyes from my exposed skin.

Unwanted arousal heats my blood at his attention before shame flushes my cheeks. He smirks up at me, reading the situation wrong. I have to look away when I notice his fingers flex and the tendons in his forearms tighten.

Without a word, I go to my room, shutting the door once I’m safely inside. Frustrated by my oversight and Bryson’s reaction, I pull on sweats and my hoodie, even though I have no intention of leaving this room. Bryson knowing how much he actually affects me gives him too much power.

Pacing the length of my carpet, I glance at the clock on my dresser, biting my fingernail. It’s too early, but I have to see Duncan. Annoyance flares inside me as I debate breaking my own rules. Consistency and structure are the only ways I feel like I have control over my life these days, and being unable to stick to regimented times throws both into the wind, but...

Giving in to the urge, I sit on my bed, open my laptop, and log in.

I smile when the video opens.

“Hey, sweet cheeks.” The sound of his sleepy voice makes me smile. “It’s early. What’s bothering you?”

“I miss you.”

“You say that every time we talk.” Sadness looms in his eyes, tainting his voice.

“I miss you more every day. I wish I was there with you.” Right on cue, my eyes well with tears. I wipe them away as they begin to roll down my cheeks.

“Sweet cheeks,” he says, his features softening. “Please don’t cry. I wish you were here too. I’ll be home soon.”

“Not soon enough.” My words echo through the speakers.

“I have to go. Chat soon?” He smiles, and my heart breaks a little more.

“I love you.”