Seven

Seven

JACE

My eyes spring open as a shout pierces the quiet. I snap up in bed, straining to see what made the noise. There's no one hiding in the corners or creeping through my closet. All I find are the remnants of a recurring nightmare floating around in my head.

I clap my mouth shut and fall back on the mattress. Laying my palms flat on the sheets, I focus on my breathing and count through each inhale and exhale.

It's been a while since I had the dream. Through the practice of mindfulness, Dr. Holloman has helped me work through the memories that plague me. We designed a routine of healthy eating, exercise, and daily planning that helps me feel secure. He also taught me how to divert my negative energy and thoughts into my art. It took some time for the new habits to calm what sometimes feels like a constant raging storm inside me. And then I had to throw everything off balance by inviting strangers into my home.

They say you have to sacrifice for your dream, and I'm offering up my mental health to make it a reality. Not that everything is terrible with Cannon and Desi around. Living alone had a downside—the smallest sounds, like the freezer dropping a batch of ice, used to set my heart racing. I was talking to myself more than I was to actual people. Now I have two people to eat dinner and watch movies with. I didn't realize how lonely I was until I wasn't anymore.

I turn to my side and tuck my comforter under my arm. Staring out the window, I watch as the sun peeks over the rooftops. The sky glows in shades of orange and pink. Clouds streak through the colors, and I can't help feeling like they represent me—thousands of shades of gray in a world alive with vibrant colors. I've existed in monochrome for so long, playing it safe in the neutral tones. That is, until recently.

My attention drifts to the window directly across from mine. Desi lies curled on her side, her fingers gripping the edge of her blanket. I have a bad habit of letting my eyes wander in her direction. I should turn over and let her have her privacy, but she makes it too easy to admire her while she's sleeping. She only pulls her curtains closed when she's dressing. As soon as she's ready to crawl into bed, she opens them again. I'm always up for the day before her, and I wonder if she takes the same precautions in the morning. No doubt her freckled skin would look amazing in this light. And her hair . . . those wild red waves would look like fire. I bet her skin is soft and warm when she wakes up. It would be tempting to glide my hand under those blankets and find out if I were lying next to her. I could wake her up with a kiss on her shoulder, her neck, her lips. She seems like the type of woman who would moan her consent. But I'd want to hear the words, just a quiet touch me, and my hands would be all over her.

My hand slides down my stomach until my fingers graze my hard cock through my underwear. I press my hips forward into my palm, and an image of Desi's elegant fingers wrapping around me plays in my head.

I jerk my hand back and shake my head. No! I'm not doing this. Desi is my roommate and I'm not crossing that line. A very creepy line I might add, watching her while she sleeps and jerking off. I need to let off some steam, and this is not how I'm going to do it.

Throwing the covers back, I jump out of bed and march to my bathroom. I spend less than five minutes throwing on a pair of joggers and a hoodie. After brushing my teeth and tying my running shoes, I head out.

Every morning I go for at least a two-mile run, but this morning I opt for four of my usual laps through the neighborhood to double my time out of the house. There's no way I want to go back too soon and end up running into Desi in the kitchen still sporting a goddamn semi.

I do have to admit, though, it is a bit of a relief to know that I can still get it up like that first thing in the morning for an actual woman, and not just the idea of one. At twenty-nine, I'm in my prime. I should get it and take it whenever and however I can. It's what most guys my age do. But after everything that happened, I have no desire to take that route again.

I've spent my fair share of time acting like the biggest jackass when it came to the opposite sex. I was going out with a different woman every other night, sleeping with her, and never calling her back because I was too busy on a date with the next. The carnage of broken hearts I left behind was a mess. I was careless in an effort to dull my pain. When I realized what I was doing, the guilt ate at me.

I'm better off on my own.

But this morning, seeing Desi in her bed, so peaceful, beautiful . . . it woke something up in me. I wanted to touch and be touched, to experience the high that comes with bringing someone the most blissed-out feeling.

Until I remembered that underneath that gorgeous face and fiery personality she has the capability to crush me from the inside out. And I'm not the kind of man she's searching for. The only thing I'm committed to is my business and working through everything in my life that left me fucked up.

When I finally get back to the house, I'm a sweaty, disgusting mess, and all I need is a hot shower. I'm walking up the stairs when my phone rings. I dig it out of my pocket and when I see Matt's name on the screen, my mood lifts. He must want to talk about the proposal I'd emailed him.

"Hey, Matt," I answer, pulling my shirt up by the hem and wiping my face. "How's it going?"

"Jace, I'm good. And you?"

"I'm all right, just finished up my morning run."

"Damn, talented and in shape. Not fair," he quips, and I just shake my head as he continues. "I wanted to see that design you talked about in your email. Can you send it over?"

My heart pounds in my chest, threatening to break right out of it and flop onto the floor. "Of course. What's up?"

"I have a friend who is looking for some marketing material for a business she just bought, and your style would work perfectly for her."

"That's amazing, just give me five to shower and change clothes."

"No problem. Jace, this is exactly why you're invaluable. I know I can count on you."

I can't help but beam from ear to ear as I enter my bedroom. "Thank you. You don't know what that means to me."

"Of course. Talk to you soon."

I say goodbye and set my phone on my dresser. Walking to the bathroom, I reach behind me, grab my collar, and pull my shirt over my head.

"Jace, wait!"

I yank the wet fabric from my head and stand stunned in the doorway of my bathroom. Desi is sitting in my bathtub with bubbles foaming over the top. Her eyes are wide, and she grips the side as if she is about to stand. Rays of sunlight shine through the frosted window behind her, and I learn firsthand what her hair looks like in the early morning light. The shock of finding her like this is accompanied by the pure panic of knowing she invaded my personal space without asking.

"What are you doing in here?" I ask, my voice deep and ricocheting off the walls.

She just stares at me, her bright-green eyes trailing down my body and back up until they land on my chest, and I have a feeling it isn't because my pecs are ripped. But she cuts her gaze from my scarred flesh, still struck silent.

"Desideria!" I snap, trying to pull her from whatever stupor she's stuck in.

"I am so sorry!" she blurts, shaking her head and drawing her knees up in front of her chest. "I woke up and I was going to get ready to go grocery shopping, and I could tell it was cold outside, and one thing I miss so much about living at home is taking baths, and, well, I just thought I could borrow your huge tub this once and you'd never know." She hangs her head again and buries her hands in her hair. "The more I talk, the worse it sounds. Look, I'm really sorry."

I run my palm over my chest. It's just as much to calm my frazzled nerves as it is to hide the gnarly scar on my left pec. I don't miss the way she sneaks a peek at it, hiding the action behind a failed attempt to seem casual. This is a feeling I despise. I'm in the one room in the house that no one enters without my permission. Desideria hasn't just come into my room without me knowing; she's seeing parts of me I'd rather keep hidden. Anger builds inside me, searing through my veins until I've reached my boiling point.

"I'm starting to believe that you enjoy irritating me," I say through gritted teeth. "First you mess with the cups in my kitchen, putting them the wrong way. Then you call me to rescue you from a shithole nightclub after I warned you to be careful. Now you're moving in on my personal space. I don't think you're sorry at all."

Her jaw drops and she lets her knees slide from her grip. I feel like a hypocrite; for all my talk about privacy I can't help my gaze sliding down to where the bubbles are starting to dissipate around her curves. But her sharp tongue sends my eyes back to hers real quick. "We already discussed this. I do not put them in the wrong way. And as far as you ‘rescuing me,' you didn't have to come. I could've just sat in the bathroom stall all night until they closed and then made a run for it and hoped that the guy wasn't waiting for me outside. And, yeah, I guess I did invade your space today. What else do you want me to do besides say I'm sorry, Jace? Get down on my knees and beg your forgiveness?"

God. The mental picture is so clear. Desi on her knees, looking up at me through those long lashes. I'm rattled just thinking about it.

"Don't tempt me, Desideria," I say, clenching my jaw closed too late. I'm losing all common sense talking to her while she's naked.

Her eyes widen and her plump lips part. "What was that?"

I should man up, take responsibility for the reckless things coming out of my mouth, but I don't. "You're putting your mouth on the part that touches the cupboard shelf. Something could have crawled around on that shelf, or there could be dust sitting on it. It's the wrong way."

She cocks her head to the side and narrows her eyes. "That is absolutely not what you said, but that's bullshit anyway, because if the cup is facing up, then the dust is falling into the cup! So either way, the dust is getting in, genius!"

I slide my palm over the back of my neck and look at the ceiling. I can't do this with her. Not when those bubbles are evaporating and threatening to give me a glimpse of her breasts. It takes several deep breaths to get my heart rate back to normal and calmly say, "Finish your bath and wipe down my tub when you're done. Don't come into my room again without asking first."

I grab two clean towels from the drawer by the door, tossing one onto the bathmat for her. Without another word, I slam the bathroom door behind me and stalk to the guest bathroom that Cannon uses.

The hot water relaxes me, relieving the tension in the back of my neck. I hate when my plans are derailed. My expectation was to take a shower and get that project off to Matt. Finding Desi in my bathroom did more than divert me; she sent my thoughts right back to the places I didn't want them to be. She's taking up space in my head that I purposely designated for other things . . . safer things.

I flip the water to cold, hoping it will freeze the thoughts, and my hard-on, away.

Desi doesn't cross boundaries; she decimates them like a wrecking ball. She's unadulterated chaos, wreaking havoc on my sanity. She's also the vibrant morning sky, bringing shades of electric green, fiery red, and passionate purple to my monochrome life. All her innocent discretions, as irritating as they are, make me feel alive.

By the time I dry off and wrap a towel around my waist, I know I was in the wrong with the way I reacted. The new plan is to send the project to Matt, make Desi an amazing lunch, and apologize for overreacting.

"Jace!"

Desi's scream sends me into a panic. I leave my dirty clothes on the floor and race down the stairs, holding the towel at my waist so it doesn't fall. She stands next to the kitchen counter, a pile of jeans resting on top and a pair in her hands. My heart continues to run when my feet have stopped. I look her over, searching for blood or a broken bone. She's wearing a midthigh length nightshirt with a sloth hanging from a tree on it. Bare legs, bare arms, and nothing out of sorts. But based on the way she screamed my name, there must be.

"What's wrong?" I ask through labored breaths.

She looks at the jeans in her hand and back at me a couple of times, her eyes wide as if I should know exactly what is going on. When she realizes that I clearly do not, she says, "My jeans, Jace. Why did you put my jeans in the dryer?"

"Because you left them in the washer last night. I believe the words you are looking for are thank you. I also folded them, by the way, so you're welcome."

"‘Thank you'? For what? For ruining my brand-new clothes?"

"How the hell do you dry them then?"

"Meredith said not to dry them! That they would shrink if I did! That I had to hang dry them. And she was right. Now they're all about two inches too short!" She holds up a pair to her waist, and I look down at her ankles. I cringe because even I can tell they're shorter than they're supposed to be. "And what started as a size fourteen is probably now, like, an eight and I won't be able to fit one thigh in them!"

"How the hell was I supposed to know that some rocket scientist made women's jeans different from men's jeans? You clean them, dry them, put them away, and wear them."

"They aren't different, but these fit me perfectly. Meredith and I spent hours going to stores. I tried on several pairs to find these. It's not easy to find jeans that are long enough and fit my hips and thighs." She slaps her hands down on the top of her legs to make her point. "And these jeans need to hang to dry."

Hang drying jeans and secret bubble baths, it's too much. "There's a simple way to avoid this—don't leave your jeans in the washer."

She grits her teeth and closes her eyes for a split second. When she opens them, I swear, the green is brighter than ever before. Stepping forward, she takes the pile of jeans from the counter and tosses them at the couch without even looking, where they bounce off the cushions and land haphazardly on the floor. Taking one more step toward me, she says, "You are so damned condescending."

I step forward, leaving mere inches between her and my chest. "And you are so spoiled."

Her lashes flutter and her lips part. My teeth ache to bite into the plump, pink bottom one. The heat radiating off her is tempting me to pull her close and see what her skin feels like against mine.

"I'm not spoiled. I just know what I want, and I'm willing to go after it, even if I'm not sure how to make it mine," she whispers, focusing on my lips looming above hers.

I struggle to maintain control. Just one tilt of my head and I'll know if her lips taste as sweet as they look. God, I want to know. Keeping my voice a low rumble, I say, "You aren't as clueless as you let on, Desideria. You know exactly what you're doing."

"And what's that?"

Dozens of answers fly through my brain. Sleeping with your blinds open. Standing too close to me on purpose like you are right now. Pissing me off just to make me squirm. Making me hard every time you come into a room.

My last sliver of control vanishes, and I eat the remaining space between us. My bottom lip brushes hers as I rasp, "Just pick up your jeans."

And as the realization that I've nearly kissed her sets in, I jump back as if she's burned me, wipe the back of my hand over my mouth, and turn away to the stairs before she can say a word.