“Would you like to buy some Wilderness Girl cookies?” I laugh to myself, saying the words out loud, sounding like a fool. “I was just passing by and remembered you lived here, and I happen to have a microeconomics question if you have a free minute?” Shift on the balls of my feet. “Join my cult? I have pamphlets in the car.”

Abe saves me from myself, pulling open the blue front door before I have the chance to knock, then the screen, making room for me to pass and bending to kiss me when our bodies brush against the other.

This just might be my favorite part of being a couple.

The hello kiss.

The goodbye kisses aren’t too shabby, either, but we’ve really only had one of those.

“Hello to you, too.” I ease past, removing my jacket as I stand in the little entry, which is basically just a patch of stained linoleum flooring surrounded by carpet at the door.

It’s evident no women live here. It’s tidy but boring and brown, decorated in secondhand chic. No offense to Abe or his roommate, but the whole living room is kind of depressing. Brown couch. One chair—a recliner. The television and some gaming equipment.

That’s it.

No pictures, no clock, no pillows or throw blankets.

Not that it’s necessarily a bad thing; it’s just different than what Hannah and I have going on at our place. Area rugs. Framed art. Pictures of us on every wall. Plants. Wallpaper in the kitchen.

Every nook of our apartment is bedecked. We move in three weeks before the semester starts every year, just to decorate. And the holidays? Ridiculous.

Abe’s place definitely needs some touches, and I’m just the girl to do it.

Maybe just his bedroom once we get to know each other better and he won’t consider it meddling. Listen to me, already wanting to make his room cozy without asking him—my mother would be appalled.

“Are you hungry?” he wants to know when I’m standing in the center of his living room, still surveying the area.

“No, I ate before I left.” Yeah, I ate: a cut-up apple on a plate with a heap of peanut butter and chocolate chips. Not what you’d call a well-balanced meal, but I couldn’t stomach anything else—nerves wouldn’t allow it.

“Want to watch a movie?”

I glance at the giant flat-screen television anchored to the wall.

“Do you have a TV in your room?” I didn’t notice one in the dark the other night when we were fooling around.

“Yeah, but it’s not as big.”

“Honestly, I’d be more comfortable hanging out in your room tonight, just in case JB comes home.” Not that I want to hide from the guy, but I kind of want to hide from the guy.

If Abe doesn’t want to tell him about us, there has to be a reason why. Short temper? Jealousy issues? I’d rather not poke the hornet’s nest prematurely without a well-thought-out plan.

“We can hang out in my room.” We’re going to end up there eventually anyway, I hear him thinking.

“Lead the way.”

I follow him down a short hallway, sticking my head into the bathroom, letting my eyes roam as if seeing everything for the first time. Single sink. Medicine cabinet for a mirror. Toilet with the seat up. Bathtub with a basic, navy blue shower curtain. It’s drawn back and there are only three bottles on the lined insert: one giant bottle of shampoo, another of conditioner, and a colossal body wash.

No window.

JB’s room is directly across from Abe’s and his door is ajar, so I give that a looksee, too. His bed is a simple mattress on a steel frame, and it’s unmade. In fact, the covers are mostly on the ground, the fitted sheet loose from one side of the bed, exposing the mattress beneath it.

His clothes are everywhere, piled haphazardly on the floor. Wooden dresser covered in cologne bottles, trophies, spare change, wrappers, papers, and a bunch of other unidentifiable…things.

A condom box sits on the bedside table.

Nice.

Actually…

I tap Abe on the back. “Maybe you should grab one of those?”

“One of what?”

He’s not as enthralled by his roommate’s room as I am.

“Condom.”

“You want to steal my roommate’s condoms?”

“I wouldn’t call it stealing.”

“Technically it is stealing because we wouldn’t be giving it back. And besides, I took care of it already—ran to the store after class yesterday.”

Oh my god, he bought condoms? That’s weirdly sweet and I’m glad for it, glad he made the effort to keep us both not pregnant.

I hug him from behind. “I have the best boyfriend.”

He pats my hands at his waist. “You’re only saying that because I haven’t done anything to piss you off.”

Yet, I silently add with a grin. He hasn’t done anything to piss me off yet. I can’t imagine him doing anything to upset me—well, other than the small detail of him lying to me at the beginning, but I was just collateral damage from his dysfunctional relationship with his roommate.

That is not a topic I’ll be touching any time soon.

I plop down on his bed as he closes and locks the door then joins me in the middle of it. I sit cross-legged and he mirrors my pose.

We’re facing each other, smiling, the only two people in the world.

“Hi,” I say foolishly, at a loss for words.

“Hi.”

“Are you tired?” His wrestling match looked exhausting, a well-fought and drawn-out victory.

“Not really.”

“Sore?”

“Not yet.” He laughs. “But I’m sure I will be. I always am.”

“Want me to rub your back?” I offer it up selfishly; I’m dying to get my hands on his bare skin and hard muscles.

His grin is answer enough. “Only an idiot would turn down a back rub.”

Abe is already reaching for the hem of his hoodie, dragging it and the t-shirt underneath over his torso. His abs are rock solid, flexing with the motion as he lifts his arms to remove his clothes.

Thank God he can’t see my face—or the hard swallow.

“Um…I’m a novice masseuse, so you should lower your expectations of this massage. It won’t be deep tissue or anything.”

He bends forward, kissing my lips. “It’s going to feel amazing.”

“It’ll probably feel more like butterfly wings,” I caution.

“I love butterflies.”

“Uh. Okay.” I crack my knuckles, posturing. “Here I come!”

The massage starts off okay. I’m next to him on the bed, kneeling and kneading, my hands lacking the proper oil or lotion to make them glide.

Still. I use the tools the good Lord gave me—my palms—pressing as deep into his back as I can without hurting him. Pressing with the tips of three fingers like I’m kneading a loaf of dough, which looks idiotic.

And I’m only doing it because if I don’t, I’ll end up sliding my hands into the elastic waistband of his athletic pants and groping his beautiful squatter’s ass when I’m supposed to be rubbing his back.

“Maybe you should sit on me.”

Say what now?

“Sit on you?”

“Yeah, you know—climb on.”

“Your back?”