9
Lena.
I was barefoot in the kitchen, one of Michael’s shirts clinging to my still-damp skin, a coffee mug in hand while I watched him move around like we hadn’t just crossed the line we’d both been tiptoeing for weeks. He was making toast, talking about something he saw on the news, and I was trying not to let it show that my thighs were still sore from the way he’d held them last night and my chest still flushed every time I looked at him.
Then the front door opened.
I blinked. He stopped mid-sentence. And that’s when we heard the voice.
“Oh my God, this house smells like lemon polish and old books.”
I turned toward the living room just in time to see her.
Tessa.
Tessa, my old roommate, with her messy bun and pink-tinted sunglasses and loud presence that always arrived two seco
