"Okay, so what now?"
"Well," he says, sticking his hands into his sweatshirt pocket. "We could hang here or head back to my place. For a tour," he adds quickly. "Maybe chill a little."
Biting the inside of my cheek, I consider my response. "Well, what would you normally do?"
"Probably head home."
"Alright," I nod. "Home it is."
I wouldn't say I'm surprised by how lavish Drew's penthouse apartment is—my best friend's married to his coach, and I know where they live. But I am shocked at how different it is from what I pictured.
Call it stereotypical, but I assumed Drew's place would be riddled with beer cans. Maybe have some controllers sitting out on the couch, a woman or two still in his bed. But the apartment I stepped into is nothing like that.
Not only is his place spotless, but it's also practically bare. There's no elaborate art on display that costs more than my car, no wall-to-wall bar stocked with any liquor you could possibly want. There is a small cart staged in the corner, with crystal glasses and a few top-shelf bottles, but that's about it. There's a gaming system tucked under the TV, the same one Cooper has, but the furniture barely looks lived in. There are no pictures on the shelves or walls, and the fridge has not one magnet stuck to it.
"Did you just move in here?" I ask, peeking through the first door I see. It must be a spare room because there's a bed in the center with an end table next to it, but there's just a fitted sheet, one single pillow, and a blanket folded and laid at the bottom.
"No, since I got drafted." He walks into the spotless kitchen, drops his keys on the vacant counter, and leans his forearms on the empty island. "So, like six years?"
I join him and lean my hip against the marble surface. "Where's all your stuff?"
He shrugs, glancing around. "What do you mean?"
"Like art?"
"Don't have any."
"Decorations?"
"Don't need any."
"Pictures?"
"Of what?"
I laugh almost awkwardly. "I don't know. Friends? Family?"
Drew leans down and pulls a blender from the cabinet underneath him. "There's a picture of my mom in my dresser drawer."
I tilt my head side to side, considering his answer. "Don't you want it to feel homey?"
He squints his eyes, slowly setting the machine's lid on the island. "It's where I live. Can't get much morehomeythan that."
Drew clears his throat, and I realize I've been staring at him longer than could be considered normal. "I'm sorry if my place isn't as Cribs as you thought it'd be."
My body freezes. "Wait, you know what that is?"
He rolls his eyes, turning toward the fridge. "I'm twenty-five, Brooke. Not fifteen."
Just the reminder of his age makes my stomach drop. So, he knows the MTV show I practically grew up on. That doesn't change that he's living in a whole different decade.
"Your place is great," I say, changing the subject back as he dispenses a handful of ice into his hand. "Just different than I thought it'd be."
His brows lift, then fall back down as he drops the cubes into the blender. "The best things usually are."
I hold his gaze, trying to read him, and he holds mine, challenging me.
When I'm determined that I'll fall into him if I don't look away, I switch topics once again.
