The goal when you get a house is to fill it with as many people as you can so your rent is cheaper—the odds of me finding a group who still needs a roommate are slim. And the odds of me finding a college kid living alone, with room to spare?

My odds of winning the lottery seem better.

“That’s bollocks.”

Bollocks.

Such a British way to say ‘load of crap.’

“What’s bollocks?”

“That you live in the dorms and you’re what, twenty-two?”

“Almost, but not quite.” My hand is gripping the handle of the door, ready to push so I can climb out, not that I’m in a rush. I’m enjoying this. “I had a house with a few girls at the school I transferred from. It was a dump, but at least I had a kitchen and an actual living room, you know? I can’t even make mac n cheese if I want to.”

Ash wrinkles his nose. “What’s mac and cheese?”

I gawk at him. “You don’t know what mac n cheese is? Stop it.”

That can’t just be an American thing, can it?

“Haven’t heard of it. What’s it, cheese and…”

“Pasta.” Sort of.

Shitty pasta, but noodles just the same.

“What kind of cheese?” he wonders.

“Um. The powdered kind.”

“Huh?” More confusion on his part.

“It, uh, comes in a bag?”

He squints. “Is that a question?”

We both laugh.

“I should make it for you. You can’t live in America and not have eaten mac n cheese at least once.”

His nod is slow. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

Eight

Georgia

515-555-9070: I’m hungry.

Me: I’m sorry, who is this?

515-555-9070: It’s Ashley, from class? I got your mobile from the group info…

Me: Ahh!!

Me: Hi

Me: If you’re hungry, why aren’t you eating? Why are you telling ME?

Ashley: I’m on a bus back from a scrimmage and thought a home-cooked meal of this cheesy mac sounds pretty good right now.

Me: First of all, lower your expectations and stop calling it a home-cooked meal. It comes in a box. It’s junk food.

Ashley: And second?

Me: You want me to come over and feed you?

Ashley: Sure.

Me: Don’t go turning this around to make it sound like I’m inviting myself over to cook for you. Just so we’re clear—YOU are asking ME to come over…?

Ashley: It’s only 5. Are you busy?

I glance down at the fuzzy socks on my feet and the worn afghan on my legs and grimace.

Me: No. My new friends were busy tonight.

Ashley: Or hungover.

Me: Lol or hungover. I didn’t ask.

I chew on my thumbnail, thinking.

Me: If you actually want me to come make mac for you, I’d have to run to the store. When will you be home?

Ashley: Home and out of the shower by six?

Me: Okay.

Me: What’s your address?

Ashley: Want me to pick you up?

Me: No, no, I can walk. It’ll still be light out.

I throw back the blanket and rise, walking three feet to my closet and peering inside.

Ashley: 2213 Decker Drive

I vaguely know where Decker is.

Me: Is that a house?

Ashley: Indeed.

Indeed.

Who talks like that?

Me: Six works.

I try not to sound too enthused, but the fact of the matter is, I’m kind of excited.

Ashley: It’s a date.

It’s not though. He’s being a brat.

Me: It’s macaroni and powdered cheese, not a date.

He’s not dressed yet.

Not entirely.

Sure, he’s wearing a shirt. And yes, he’s wearing pants—but the shirt is not buttoned and the pants are hanging perilously low on his hips, and I swallow at the sight of his damp hair.

The smattering of hair on his chest.

The bare feet.

The ink covering his smooth collarbone.

One scar.

Two.

“Hey.” He throws the door open wide enough so I can step inside, into an actual foyer.

Foyer?

It’s not a large one by any means, but it is unusual for any off-campus housing. There’s even a small table off to the side with a bowl for keys, mirror hanging above it.

“Was just getting out of the shower, excuse the mess. Kitchen is through there, give me a sec and I’ll be right back.”

Give me a sec—he’d sound like your average, typical American college boy if not for the posh accent.

Definitely doesn’t sound like Eliza Doolittle with her cockney, more like Prince William.

Refined.

Classy.

Instinctively I find the kitchen—it’s in the usual spot—through a formal dining room that’s loaded down with sporting gear that’s been tossed onto the dining table.

At the back of the house, I glimpse a view of his truck parked in the driveway next to the window.

I’m perplexed.

Why does he live here? Most college students rent shitholes—houses that should be condemned. Houses the landlords let fall to disrepair because…it’s college kids and they (the landlord) don’t give a rip.

One time, my friends Kath and Brooke had a bat in their house—do you think the landlord cared to come have it removed?

No.

They had to whack it themselves with a tennis racket with the help of a few brave fraternity boys.

This rental hasn’t seen an airborne rodent a day in its life.

I set the grocery bag in my arms down on the kitchen island, surveying my surroundings.

Dark woodwork.

Black stone counters.

Hardwood floors.

It’s not huge, but it’s super nice and only adds to the many layers that seem to be the onion of Ashley Dryden-Jones.

I unpack the grocery bag: three boxes of mac n cheese.

One half gallon of milk.

One pack of salted butter.

Hot dogs, because why not sweeten the full American experience?

I’ve also thrown in a small carton of chocolate milk and brought something else I doubt he’s had: orange push-up sorbet pops.

A childhood classic, at least in my house growing up.

The combo is a bit gross, I’ll admit, but he can eat them later, my treat.

Rooting around for a pot, I find one and fill it with water, light the burner on the stove. Start the water to boil, waiting for Ash to appear, fully clothed this time (except if I’m being honest, half-naked Ashley is one hell of a sight to look at).

My back is to the door when he enters the kitchen, and I pause, wooden spoon in my hand as I turn.

He shaved.

Not entirely—he still has hair on his face—but he’s definitely cleaned up the scruff on his neck and cheeks, his facial hair tidier than it was when he pulled open the door.

He’s removed the pants and thrown on board shorts.

Feet still bare.

Hair still damp, combed to the side.

Cute.

Very cute.

He grins at me, coming closer. “Make yourself at home,” he teases.

Ha ha.

“Sorry, but I wanted to get crackin’.”

“Crackin’,” he repeats. “Is that a Southern word?”