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Oh lordy. His roommate. The legendary, mythical Jethro Con
nors.
Well, at least mythical in my world. I’ve only ever seen him in pictures on Joel’s Instagram and Facebook profiles.
Yep, I’m stalking them on Instagram. And Facebook. And every other media available.
So sue me. It’s harmless, I swear. No real-life stalking, which makes the fact this guy’s here all the more exciting. And hey, who can blame a girl for wanting to catch a glimpse of those two pieces of candy, especially when they’re togeth—
“He likes them,” Joel is saying, and I hastily erase fantasy images of him and Jethro… together. Doing anything together. Especially anything involving bananas or similarly shaped objects.
“Well,” I say brightly, “then right this way, please.”
I smile, and I’m probably showing too many teeth because his eyes narrow. Oops. Shark smile. Happens when I get excited, and I look like I want to bite someone.
Not that biting Joel on any hot, muscular part of his body is a bad idea.
Shit.
“A book about bananas coming right up.” My voice comes out sort of muffled, as I purse my lips to minimize the damage and hide my teeth—which are slightly crooked, not too bad, but seem too many for my small mouth. “Rethipes okay?”
“Rethipes?” His brow furrows as he follows me, taking one stride for every two of mine. He’s so tall!
God, that’s hot.
“Um, yes. Recipes.” I untuck my lips and swallow hard, because I’ve fantasized about this guy for so long it’s not even funny, and he’s right here, beside me, asking me for a book about—
“Recipes sound good. He likes smoothies.”
Smoothies. And bananas. I’m updating my files on Jethro Connors tonight—yeah, real online files, okay? Shush—as I reach for the shelf. “Does he like cooking?”
“No, but I do.”
I flick a surprised glance at him and have to physically turn away when my gaze tries to glue itself to the brilliant blue of his eyes, the hardness of his jaw, the strong body stretching his sports jacket in just the right way to make me clench inside.
Insta-boy-gasm. Dammit.
And he likes cooking. Jeezus. That’s it, I’m kidnapping him and keeping him as my personal slave.
“Here you go.” I hand him the book, trying not to look at him as I do so, which results in some unexpected maneuvering—him reaching for the book, me handing it off toward the door, him bumping me with his backpack as he turns to grab it before it drops to the floor—and my eye catches on the big, curved banana on the cover.
I groan inwardly.
Because, let’s face it, no girl has ever had as many twisted erotic fantasies about a guy she’s never talked to before as I have, and I’m dying to ask if he likes bananas, too.
Bananas, peaches, papayas, nuts, eggplants, zucchinis… Hey, how about some Candy?
But before I ask—because yeah, I’m crazy like that, especially with a male specimen such as this one in close proximity, his musky boy-smell turning my brain to mush and my girly bits all excited and warm—his cell rings.
He reaches for it in his back pocket, draws it out, and turns slightly away to answer. “Jet, you dickwad, where were you? We said four, not fucking six.”
He turns his back to me completely and huffs, those broad shoulders rising and falling, and… his ass is spectacular. There’s no other word for it. Tight and pert, and those thick thighs encased in dark jeans, filling them out nicely…
I check my chin for drool. My boobs tingle. My kitty purrs, asking for some petting.
Later, pet.
“Yeah. Just buying some stuff. No, Ellen was a no show. It was a misunderstanding. No, I’ll be fine. There’s a nerdy chick in glasses helping me out.”
