“What?” I squeak.
He reaches into my bookcase, and when I see what he pulls out, relief washes over me.
“You’re into vinyl?” he accuses.
“Why do you sound mad?”
“Because! If I’d known that before, I—I’d have…” He trailsoff, shaking his head. He crouches down and sifts through the albums I started collecting last year. Nirvana, Foo Fighters, Lana Del Rey. And the most recent, a remastered version of Oasis’s(What’s the Story) Morning Glory?My parents have a turntable setup downstairs, but when I started saving for my own, I moved my records up here. Maybe I thought it would keep me on track with saving my money, or something. Remind me what I was working toward. “And such good taste, too,” he says, almost to himself.
I go back to whatever he didn’t say. “What are you talking about? If you’d known, you’d have what?”
He rises and thinks for a minute. “I’d have decided you were cool. Really cool. A lot sooner than I did.”
On the one hand, his approval of my taste in music—while expected, because my taste is top-tier—is the highest form of flattery. On the other, is he saying there was a time when he didn’t think I was cool?
I cross my arms. “Says the guy who desperately wanted me to stay at the party the first night we met.”
“That’s true. There were very few people there worth talking to.”
I snort. “Everyone wanted to talk to Kat, that’s for sure.”
“Not me. I knew right away she wasn’t my type.”
I blink. “Your type? Your type for what?” Also, I can say on good authority that Kat seems to be everyone’s type. It’s me who people usually need to warm up to.
He doesn’t reply right away. Just looks at me with those brown eyes, a slight pinch between his brows like he’s considering howto respond. His gaze drops to my lips again, just for a split second, but it’s enough to send my stomach into a somersault. He lifts one hand and rubs it across his mouth, then sighs.
“I just mean my type for, like, friends,” he says.
“Oh.” I can’t decide if I’m disappointed or relieved. But I do know I can feel my heart beating in my chest.
We stand there staring at each other for a long moment, and I remember he’s still shirtless. Shirtless and in my room and barely two feet away from me.
I twist around and disappear into my walk-in closet and call out, “So, um. I probably have a couple of options for you…” I have to rummage around for several minutes to find what I’m looking for. When I re-emerge, I basically throw three shirts at him.
He lets out a sort of surprised breath as he moves quickly to catch them. He maneuvers them around in his arms, studying the design of each. He makes a face at the Patriots one and tosses it onto my bed.
“Don’t tell my dad you’re not a fan,” I warn, picking it up to refold. “I think he actually cried the day Tom Brady moved on.”
He laughs and finally chooses the basic tee with “CHAPPY” emblazoned across the front and threads his arms through. He pulls it on, leaving his brown hair even more disorganized than before, like he just got out of bed. The fact that he doesn’t seem to notice and doesn’t immediately smooth it out is soGregory.
“Thanks for this,” he says, folding the last one he didn’t choose and handing it to me.
My reply is interrupted by a loud grumble.
“Was that yourstomach?” I ask.
He winces. “I skipped lunch at work.”
“Want something to eat? I could get you something while we wait for the vet. Oh, do you like grilled cheese? I have a recipe that will change your life, I swear.”
“A life-changing grilled cheese?” Gregory shrugs. “That sounds like something I shouldn’t pass up.”
“You won’t regret it,” I say, and fifteen minutes later he’s sitting at our kitchen table as I slide a plate in front of him.
“Is that—” he starts, but I hold up a hand.
“Just try it. Trust me.”
