Chapter 6
Sophie
I didn’t realize being cool with the couch meant becoming one with it,I think, as I step over three pairs of Liam’s sneakers scattered by the bathroom door.
We’ve been “coexisting” for a week now, and as far as I can tell, he hasn’t left that couch—except for his daily runs that happen at the crack of dawn and his brutal calisthenics sessions that turn the living room into his personal gym.
“Hey,” he says, glancing up, then back at the TV. His feet are propped on one arm of the couch, and his head rests on the other. I can't understand how he’s sleeping on that thing—he’s easily a foot too tall.
“Shoot,” I mutter, drumming my fingers against the counter as I try to remember what I’m forgetting. Laptop. I duck back into Cal’s room.
When money got tight a few months ago, I answered an ad for a “freelance content assistant.” Which basically means I write fake reviews for Etsy ebooks and overly enthusiastic comments on TikToks I’ve never watched. It’s soul-sucking, but it pays. Just not enough. Not having to pay rent for a couple of months while I’m at Cal’s will help, but with student loan payments and future rent, I’ll need to find something more stable, and soon.
Liam’s flipping through channels on Cal’s massive TV, not really watching anything. A beer dangles from his hand, another already empty on the coffee table. I’m in no position to judge since I’m just emerging from bed at 1 p.m. Cal’s apartment is open concept—the kitchen and living room blend into one big space with hardly any privacy. Which is why I’ve spent the last three days holed up in Cal’s room, rotating between naps and smutty romance novels.
I may or may not be rereading the one about the bad boy MLB player and the no-nonsense publicist hired to clean up his image. Last night, I hit the locker room scene—the one with the publicist, the player, and some very creative finger work, and my imagination may have wandered…along with my hand.
I shake the thought from my head. I need to get it together and not be lusting after my accidental roommate, who has been keeping his obvious distance in the last five days.
“So,” I manage, my voice still a little higher than I’d like. “Good day?” I pluck a sweaty t-shirt off the back of the barstool.
“Yup.” He takes a long pull from his beer, eyes flicking to the shirt dangling from my fingers. “Just toss it on the pile. I’ll get to laundry later.”
I toss it in the pile and set my laptop on the counter—completely dead. I sigh and scan the room.
“It’s next to the armchair,” Liam says, not even glancing away from the TV.
Sure enough, my charger is plugged in there. “Thanks,” I mumble.
“It’s freezing in here,” I mutter as a gust of cold air hits me. I walk over to the wide-open window. “Did you forget you’re in San Francisco, not El Paso?”
Without warning, he pulls his shirt over his head. My brain short-circuits. His chest is broad, the line of his shoulder looks sculpted from marble, and I can count every singledefined ab muscle. There’s a trail of dark hair that disappears into the waistband of his sweatpants. When he twists to toss his shirt onto the growing laundry heap, the cords of his forearms pop, and I nearly forget how windows work.
“You can close it,” he says, catching my stare. “Sorry, I run a little hot.”
Boy,does he ever.
I slam the window shut with a little more force than necessary and zip my hoodie up to my chin. “It’s fine,” I mutter. “Let’s just try to keep Karl the Fog outside.”
I pull a cereal box off the kitchen shelf and stuff a handful into my mouth while waiting for my computer to come back to life. I get started on my latest series of “Oh, this book changed my life” posts, shaking Froot Loops directly into my mouth for every heartfelt review I fake.
“You don’t really eat, do you?” Liam asks from his residence on the couch, and I look down at the box in my hand.
“I think the fact that I’m actively putting food in my mouth means I eat.”
“I just mean I haven’t seen you eat an actual meal since we’ve been here,” he says, swinging himself off the couch. He’s not wrong. I don’t really cook. I get distracted easily, so I graze all day long—cereal, cheese sticks, PB&J if I really want to make an effort.
He walks into the kitchen, still shirtless, all lean muscle and that infuriating V of his abs that acts like a neon arrow pointing straight to the waistband of his now dangerously low-slung sweats. I take a few self-preserving steps back as he rounds the counter and pulls open the fridge.
“Do you like salmon?” Liam asks, pulling out a glass storage container.
I nod and try to swallow the lump in my throat. He opens the pantry door and takes out two microwavable ricepackets.
“Have you heard of the viral salmon bowls?” he asks, gesturing to the bowls on the open shelf above my head.
“I make a living scrolling TikTok, so yes, I’ve heard of them,” I reply, handing him the bowls.
“I thought you made a living doing art?” he asks, taking condiments out of the fridge.
