“I lost count at seven,” she says, her head rolling onto the back of the couch.
“Seven is a lot for a little pipsqueak like you,” I say.
“I’m hardly a pipsqueak,” she says dryly.
“I didn’t mean anything,”
“Sorry, it’s just that Marshall always told me I was too heavy for the waif aesthetic and not curvy enough to be a voluptuous ingénue.”
My head snaps towards hers, and thank god her eyes are still closed—she doesn’t see the way my gaze rakes over her body. Over those perfect curves, the dip of her tiny waist. The way she’s stretched out on the couch makes her tank ride up, exposing toned abs, and her breasts strain against the fabric, barely contained. My dick responds instantly.
“I think your ex doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about,” I bite out.
Her head rolls to the side, like she can’t bear to lift it, and she opens her eyes. A soft, almost wounded smile crosses her face.
“I think he thought he was helping, you know? He told me if I wanted to be taken seriously as an artist, I had to look the part.”
“What the fuck does an artist look like?” And maybe it's a good thing my head is still throbbing, and I am in no condition to drive, because I’m about to pay a visit to Mr. Artsy McDouchebag.
Sophie rests her hand on my knee, and warmth blooms in my chest. “Liam, it’s okay,” she soothes. Her thumb traces a small circle on my jeans, and I wonder if she’s even aware of what she’s doing. “I haven’t painted in months, so there is no part to look like.”
“I’m not sure you can stop being an artist,” I say. “You might not be making art at the moment, but I think being an artist is in your bones—like me being a baseball player.”
She nods, but I can tell she’s not convinced.
“Besides, what about this commission?”
“Liam, please.” She holds up her hand, and I miss its warmth on my leg. “Senator Langford isn’t going to call me. Drunk people’s ideas don’t always make sense sober.”
I almost kissed her last night. Would that apply to her “drunk people ideas?” Because I’m sobering up, and it somehow still makes sense.
We spend the rest of the day sprawled out on various pieces of living room furniture. We eat saltines and drink ginger ale. Sophie naps on the couch, letting out soft puffing breaths and mumbling every so often. I flick on the TV so I don’t keep watching her like a total weirdo.
When she wakes, we find aSurvivorrerun marathon and settle in to armchair quarterback. Sophie starts at the far end of the couch, but with each episode, she drifts closer, until by the fifth episode she’s curled against my side, her bare legs folded beneath her. I force myself to focus on the TV instead of the smooth skin of her thighs.
“I need a shower,” Sophie declares, but doesn’t move from the nest she’s made next to me. “There’s probably vomit in my hair.”
“Sorry, that was my fault.”
“No, you kept it from being a lot of vomit.” She covers her face with her hands. “I can’t believe you held my hair while I puked. That is way beyond the roommate code of conduct.”
“I didn’t mind,” I say, tucking a curl behind her ear. I like being here to take care of her. I wouldn’t have wanted her to be alone.
She emerges from the shower thirty minutes later while I’m setting up my bed on the couch. I freeze. Her damp curls frame her face, and she’s only wearing one of Cal’s oversized t-shirts that hits just below the curve of her ass. I have to grip the couch cushion to keep from reaching for her. Fuck. I need to stop looking at her like that—she just spent the day recovering from a hangover, and I’m thinking about what’s under her t-shirt.
“Why didn’t I do that sooner? I feel like a new woman,” she says, shaking her fingers through her wet curls. A move that causes her shirt to hikedangerously high.
“Good.” I focus on arranging my pillows, not the expanse of exposed flesh of her thighs.
“Okay then,” she says at the doorway to Cal’s room. “Thanks again for taking such good care of me. I owe you.”
“It was my pleasure,” I say.
She looks like she wants to say more, her eyes searching my face. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves, and the air between us feels electric. Then she goes into the bedroom and shuts the door behind her.
I stretch out on the couch and lace my fingers behind my head, staring at the ceiling. I hear the bedroom door click again.
“Liam,” she says, reappearing from the bedroom. “You look ridiculous on that couch. You don’t even fit.” She glances back into Cal’s room. “Cal’s bed is huge. I’m sure we can share. We’ll make a pillow wall.” She turns to walk back into the room.
