Do not fixate on Callum’s hair. Do not focus on how fucking hot his bedhead is. Do not stare at his sexy stubble that’s contouring his handsome face and framing it like it’s the damnMona Lisa.
Yeah, no. I can’t. What’s the point of telling myself not to do something as I’m actively doing it? Thereisn’ta point, so I ignore my logic and let my eyes roam all over Callum’s body. That shirt he’s wearing certainly isn’t helping me stop—it’s a basic, boxy T-shirt, but on him, it might as well be tailored athletic wear, hugging his strong chest and accentuating it in a way I appreciate like hell.
I turn away before I can make a fool of myself. “I’m grabbing a beer. You want one?”
“Yeah, thank you,” he calls out, and I head for the kitchen.
My attraction isn't out of hand, but it’s still there, no thanks to Callum being gorgeous as heck.
Honestly, I can’t blame myself for finding a hot guy hot. I’m only human.
Okay, and he’s more than hot, but being a great guy is good for friendship, too.
Besides, am I smiling and kicking my feet over Callum and jerking off to the thought of him? No, absolutely the fuck not. What is happening, though, are intrusive thoughts that are becoming less intrusive and more incessant.
Case in point: my general inability to focus doesn't apply to Callum. His back is turned to me as he works on a paper or something, and I have to snap myself out of staring at those muscles twitching under his shirt.
I think he's straight. My little quip about him being a chick magnet wasn't met with the “I'm gay, actually” that would've made me forever grateful to the universe. He's given off exactly zero indications that he's anything but straight, but I need him to confirm it once and for all.
That can happen in one of three ways.
One, I can ask him directly.“Hey, man, kinda random question, but are you straight?”
I don't want to think about how he might react.
Two, I could take him out to a frat party, introduce him to a group of willing women, and observe.
That'd be a total dick move, and then I'd get all jealous over the overwhelming action he'd attract.
Three, I could come out to him myself and see how he reacts.
Not the worst option. I’ll go with that.
I’m halfway through pouring Callum a beer when I have to yank my arm against my side.
God, Ireek.
Okay, it’s not that bad, thanks to my regimented hygiene routine, but still. Callum has to put up with my perpetual athlete BO while he smells like the concentrated essence of every hot man on earth.
I hooked up with a guy about a year ago who had the same maddening, intoxicating musk about him, and he kicked me out before I could ask him what cologne he used. Now I know it’s an antiperspirant called Ocean Ice, judging from the stick Callum keeps next to his toothbrush. It’s the cheapest option in that aisle of the drugstore, and that’s enough to stretch my self-control to the absolute limit.
Unavailable men have something about them, I swear. I want what I can’t have.
Keeping my arm pinned to my side, I deliver Callum his beer and stand a safe distance back to plan our dude night. “It's kinda chilly, so I was thinking we could stay in and watch a movie or something. I gotta shower first, though. Sorry for thestink.”
“Don’t worry about it. You're fine. That sounds good.”
Smiling, I head for the bathroom. Callum is so chill and agreeable. I wish I could be more like him. It must be nice, not overthinking everything on earth, and not having to tamp down a crush on every attractive person who shows me basic decency.
I rinse off, towel myself dry, and put my own boring, unscented deodorant on before getting dressed and heading back out. When I round the corner, I find that Callum has changed out of his jeans and into sweats and a soft-looking gray hoodie that clings to him. The hood is up, covering his eyes, and the mere sight of Callum, asleep and adorable, slams me with a tidal wave of unwelcome arousal.
God, or whatever’s up there, please fucking help me.
He’s minding his own business, nothing more. He’s wearingmultiplelayers, yet my stupid body reacts as though he’s buck naked and bending me over the dining table, holding me in place with those big hands and screwing my brains out?—
Holy shit, he's the worst kind of trouble, and he isn’t doing anything to warrant that label.
I have half a mind to nip into my room so I can take care of this awful spike of testosterone, but Callum chooses that moment to wake up, removing the hood and blinking his tired, lethally beautiful eyes at me.
