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Her fingers were smudged with ink or graphite, and every time she pushed up her glasses, she rubbed a little off on her nose.Noting the black notebook under the one she was reading, it seemed a safe assumption that she was an artist of some sort. I mean, I only date nerds, but they’ve been mostly decent, if not forgettable. I mean, guys who play Magic aren’t all bad, although they’re usually serious babies when I beat them.”“Nobody likes a sore loser.”“Nothing hoses off the libido like a grown man in a My Little Pony T-shirt throwing a tantrum over Magic cards.”The visual made me smile. ”“Not really.”Her brow climbed.“Listen — Street Fighter doesn’t count because you cheat.”She gaped in mock surprise. And I hate steak and beer.”“Says the guy who cheats at chess.”I gave her a look. “You can lose as whatever color you want.”“I’m gonna beat you one day, if it’s the last thing I do, Knight,” she said over her shoulder.“Good,” I said, smirking at her back.

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They always used the hottest models for those.”I smirked to cover the fact that I was suddenly very aware of her thigh pressed against mine. I’d been in a book rut, uninspired by the last three books I’d tried, but as my dad always said — the best cure for a rut was to pick up a sure thing. “You look straight out of a poster for cigarettes from the 40s. “Anyone with functioning corneas would say you’re hot. I’m pretty sure I saw a blind guy give you a double-take the other day.”A laugh burst out of me, and she smiled, looking smug. I hadn’t read it since I was in high school, and I was long overdue for a re-read.It made me feel a little bit better about blatantly creeping on him.I turned my attention back to my book, sorta — I couldn’t fully focus as I listened for cues.“Damn, it feels good to sit down,” she said, leaning into me a little more.“I bet.” Instinctively, I wanted to put my arm around her, but stopped myself. I waited until his back was turned to sneak a quick glance, at least — his skin was smooth and immaculate, and the taper of his long waist was of a mathematical proportion that made my ovaries clench.

I heard Tyler’s alarm sound, breaking the silence in the quiet apartment, and I did my best not to look when he shuffled out of his bedroom in nothing but a pair of sleep pants, dark hair ruffled.

She huffed, rolling her eyes as she climbed off the couch.

Any hetero woman would have looked, I told myself for the thousandth time since he’d moved in.

OKAY, MAYBE not full-blown, tell-the-future, Madame Esmeralda or anything, but with little more than a glance, I could tell you a number of things about a person, from the types of books they read to their favorite drink. For instance, when I first met my roommate, Tyler, I instantly knew several things to be true.

I’d always sorted people, just like books in the Dewey Decimal System, where everything had its place. He’d played sports — football I’d guessed — any man that tall and built would be crazy not to use his body for sports.

Something about her — her posture maybe, almost like she was trying to make herself smaller, or her clothes, loose fitting and a little out of style — told me that she wasn’t the ball-busting, go-getting type, but she was pretty, to be sure, with skin like cream and hair in a bun with heavy bangs.