What next? What, what, what?

“Uh, you want to go watch TV?” he asks.

Is he suggesting we Netflix and chill? I do not want to become a meme. Though I do love Netflix. “Do you actually have cable?”

He shrugs those broad shoulders and I’m suddenly struck with the urge to climb him like a tree. “I actually don’t. I won’t be home enough to justify the cost. I do have Netflix, though.”

“Do you have a laptop?” When he nods, I keep talking. “Grab it and let’s watch something here.” I wave a hand toward the bed.

What am I suggesting? I don’t want to get in too deep yet I say we should hang out and watch Netflix on his bed.

Clearly I’ve lost my mind.

Both of his eyebrows shoot up. He’s super cute when he does that. He’s super cute when he does just about anything. “You want to watch Netflix in bed?”

“Yeah, why not?” I glance down at myself. I am completely overdressed for lying in bed watching a movie. “Do you have a T-shirt I can borrow?”

Those eyebrows shoot up again, even farther this time. “Uh, sure. Let me go grab one.”

Wade slips inside his walk-in closet and disappears for a bit, finally emerging once more with a MacBook under one arm and a black T-shirt clutched in his other hand. “Here you go. Hope this works.”

“Thanks.” I make my way to his bathroom and shut the door, turning to face my reflection in the mirror. I look scared. My eyes are extra wide, my cheeks flushed a dark pink and my hair is a little wild. I smooth through it with my fingers then turn on the faucet so I can splash water on my too-hot face.

God, what am I doing? Getting involved with a guy I’m pretending to be with? This is just so strange. But the more time I spend with Wade, the more I like him. That can’t be helped. I’m drawn to him. He’s sweet and funny and interesting, and the fact that he’s incredibly good-looking is just a bonus.

This entire situation is strange. What started out as something awful is quickly turning into something…

Amazing.

Could I get this lucky? Could whatever’s happening between Wade and me turn into something real?

Maybe.

Or maybe not.

After I take off my clothes—leaving on my bra and panties, of course—I slip on the giant T-shirt. It falls practically to my knees and the sleeves are so large, they hang to my elbows. I look like the T-shirt is swallowing me whole, but the bonus is when I put my face to it, the fabric smells like Wade.

Yummy.

I exit the bathroom and go into the bedroom to find the overhead light is off and the laptop is sitting open in the middle of the bed, the bright screen casting its glow throughout the large room. The room is otherwise dark, but Wade isn’t in here and I’m about to leave in search of him when the closet door opens and he walks out, wearing a pair of black sweatpants and nothing else.

Nothing. Else.

My jaw practically hits the floor.

“I can put on a shirt if you want me to,” he starts to say, as if he’s afraid he’s offending me or something crazy, but I shake my head, needing him to stop whatever it is he’s thinking and stay just like he is.

“No. You’re fine. Really.” I smile, hating how eager I sound. But I can’t help it.

I mean, look at him.

He is absolute perfection. His shoulders, arms and chest are like a work of art. All I can see is smooth golden skin stretched over defined muscle, his flat stomach ridged—that’s a six pack I’m staring at, people—those sweatpants hanging precariously low on his hips.

Oh, this is bad. Dangerous. We’re going to sit next to each other on that giant bed, and maybe we’re going to snuggle close and then I won’t be able to resist. I’ll reach out and touch him. I’ll probably keep on touching him too, and then I can’t be held responsible for what I do next. I might sneak my hand down his pants or something scandalous. And I’m going to guess he won’t mind that either. Most guys don’t, right?

And look at me, just wearing his T-shirt, silently begging him to touch me, too. I hope he does. Caution is flying out the window tonight, or however that saying goes. Forget it. We only live once. YOLO and all that bullshit.

“Let’s pick out a movie,” he says, and I eagerly follow him over to the bed, both of us sitting on the edge while he grabs the MacBook and sets it in his lap. He brings up Netflix and we start scrolling through the new movies, our heads bent close to each other’s. So close I can smell him, his soapy clean scent like an aphrodisiac to my senses.

I could inhale him all night if he’d let me.

He wants to watch some manly action movie that came out at the very beginning of summer—and is already on Netflix, so that should tell us something—and I readily agree because I don’t care. I won’t be able to focus on the movie anyway. All I’ll want to do is stare at the man lying next to me, looking good enough to eat what with all that skin on display.

We figure out a place to set the laptop and then I fluff the pillows so we can prop our heads up and see the screen. He grabs a throw blanket from the foot of the bed and drapes it over both of us, the laptop propped in between. It’s cozy. Intimate. I’m shivering, even though I’m not cold. More like I’m nervous.

Excited.

“Ready to watch?” he asks, his finger poised over the correct key on the laptop.

When I nod, he hits play and the movie starts. But I’m already unfocused, unable to pay attention. I don’t care about the movie. I’m too aware of Wade. Every little move he makes, the sound of his breathing, the scent of his skin. How his hair rustles on the pillow when he turns his head, and I want to run my fingers through it. He sniffs and I sneak a glance at him, staring at him unabashedly while he watches the movie.