“I shouldn’t be awake this late…I have to be up at five for a workout.”

Same.

Correction: I don’t have to be—it’s not required—but I like to get my workout in as early as I can to avoid a full gym and to knock it out so I have my evenings free.

“I’ve always been a morning person,” I finally say. “What about you?”

“Mmm, not really, although I was never allowed to sleep in growing up. My parents always had chores they needed me to do, even on the weekends. So I think the latest I was ever allowed to sleep in was maybe eight? On a Sunday if we didn’t go to church.” She pauses. “I used to hate it, but I guess that’s what created my work ethic, although I could have done without having to load the wood box in the winter.”

“We weren’t really able to sleep in either at school. They were pretty strict, though most of my mates were spoiled and useless.”

Pampered blue bloods, the lot of them. Or the sons of wealthy mobsters, corporate tycoons, and finance moguls.

Like my dad.

A mere baron but rich as fuck.

“What reasons would they have had for waking you up?” Georgia wants to know, boobs pushed up and plumped up over the neckline of the white tank top she’s changed into for bed.

I avert my eyes. “Mostly practice. I played lacrosse when I was in school, some lads had to work in the stable yard, things like that. We took turns working in the refectory. Cafeteria, I mean.”

“Did you have to wear a hairnet?” she teases.

“And rubber gloves.” I wiggle my eyebrows and laugh.

“Apron?”

I nod. “Definitely an apron.”

We both focus on the show for a while, and I put my arms behind my head, lacing my fingers together. Georgia is still lying on her side, cuddled down.

“My hands are so cold. I wish I could wear mittens to bed,” comes her soft voice.

“Let me feel them.”

One of her palms slides across the mattress, across my cool sheets and over to my hand.

It feels like ice.

“Damn, roomie, you’re not joking.”

“My feet were cold before I came in here, but they’re getting warmer. Sometimes I wear socks to bed, which I know is lame, but still.”

I have her hand in mine, sandwiching it beneath my ribcage and the mattress. “Here, let me have the other one.”

She scoots over so she can give me her other palm, and I rub it—rub it like I’m warming it over a campfire, the friction creating heat.

Georgia watches me in the dark, the glow from the telly casting shadows on her face.

“Thank you.”

After her hands are warm, she doesn’t move back to her side of the mattress, instead lying where she is, in this spot, studying me quietly.

Eyes drifting across my bare chest.

Leisurely, she removes the hand from under my side, her fingers slowly trailing across the ink on my collarbone. Tracing the line that goes from one side to the other.

It’s a tattoo of ivy I got when I turned eighteen, one I hid from Mum and Dad, knowing they’d lose their bloody minds if they found out about it.

The ivy wraps around a banner with the words Do all things with intention in Latin. Other tattoos on my body include a cross, an old ship with sails, a bleeding heart, and a few random ones I got whilst I was a bit too inebriated to make good decisions.

The tip of my roommate’s fingers gives me goose flesh as it kisses along my skin, outlining the objects that were designed in black.

I wonder what’s going through her head right now; it’s impossible to tell by the somber expression on her face. Furrowed brow as she concentrates, intent.

“I like this one,” she whispers, meaning the family crest I had done last year. It reminds me of home. The Dryden-Jones history. Loyalty to England.

I clear my throat but otherwise don’t reply.

I can’t.

My skin and body are humming, positively buzzing with energy.

It takes everything inside me to lie still and not move, wanting to touch her but fighting the temptation.

I don’t want to scare her or freak her out.

Everything feels like it’s moving in slow motion, and all I can do is watch. I wish I could watch Georgia tracing my tattooed skin the way I was watching the television before; it certainly feels more exciting.

My heart is racing as if I just played an eighty-minute rugby match at full speed. I swear if she lingered long enough over my heart, she would feel it beating out of my chest. Actually, I wonder if she already can.

Her eyes give nothing away.

I can barely tell what she’s thinking, if she’s fascinated or disgusted or marveling at the sight of the art on my body.

“When did you get this?” she asks, referring to the bleeding heart. “What does it mean?”

“It’s, um…just a symbol for how I put my heart and soul into everything I do. I never half-arse anything. I always give my full arse.”

That makes her laugh, eyes lighting up. She bites down on her bottom lip as if she’s feeling shy. Still, her hands never stray from my skin.

Georgia suddenly has this look on her face I can’t describe or identify as she inches closer to get a better look at me. It’s like she’s trying to memorize the lines in my face. Her hand moves from my clavicle and my chest up to my face, hovering centimeters from my cheekbone.

“Is it okay if I touch you here?” she wants to know.

I’m not sure what she’s asking, because she’s already been touching me this entire time. But maybe she thinks somehow touching me on the face is more intimate than touching my chest. Either way, I’m okay with it.

“Sure.” I hold my breath.

The fingers that were running along my collarbone are now running along the scar on the side of my face. Thumb and forefinger. Georgie’s eyebrows rise for real when she brushes over the gash at the corner of my mouth, the one I earned in last week’s game that bled and was sore for days.

“Did this hurt?”

Goddamn right it did.

I chuckle. “Not as bad as the one I got last year, when a cleat caught me in the corner of the eye.” But that faded, thank god, and didn’t leave a scar.

Her mouth forms a little O of surprise. “You got kicked in the face by a shoe?”

That’s what a cleat is, yeah. “It happens.”

She leans in closer, so close I can feel her tits pressed against my chest. “I cannot believe it didn’t leave a scar.”

“There’s a tiny one, barely noticeable. Then again, I have scars on top of scars, so who can even tell what’s what.”

“I can’t believe they don’t make you wear helmets.”

Me either, sometimes. Rugby is fucking dangerous.

Fun, but dangerous.

Georgia’s forefinger traces my eyebrow. “Have you ever had a concussion?”

“Several.”

She hums in disappointment, lips pursing in displeasure. “They should make you wear helmets.”

“I don’t think one would fit on my head.”

She rolls her eyes. “Are you saying you have an inflated ego?”

“You don’t think I do?”

“Not at all.” She scoffs at me. “Not even a little.”