In Too Hard (Freshman Roommates Trilogy, Book 3) (8 page)

“What kind of delivery?” I flipped through stuff on Montrose’s desk, looking for a campus phone directory to have security’s number if needed.

“Dinner. Dinner from Peking Delight for Sydney O’Brien. That you?”

“Yes, it’s me. But I didn’t order anything, so—”

“Order from a Mr. Montrose. All paid for. Said to deliver to you here. You no want?”

I had grabbed my keys and keycard and was through the door as I was answering, “I want. I’ll be right there.”

He’d paid for dinner, even the tip. And it was an enormous amount of food, with appetizers, a couple of entrees and almond cookies. He’d even included a couple of Diet Cokes. It was all very thoughtful.

He was no self-entitled prick any longer, if he’d ever even been close.

I cleared off his desk and laid out my wonderful Christmas dinner. Most people would lament not having a home-cooked dinner on the holiday. But I knew my mother’s cooking, and I was much happier with Peking Delight’s offerings, non-traditional as they were.

About half an eggroll into my feast, my phone buzzed with a call from Montrose. Not just a call, but a FaceTime call. I contemplated how I looked for about a half second, until I realized it was more important to get the call before he hung up than run my fingers through my hair and put on lip gloss. Instead of answering on my phone, I slid my laptop over in front of me, careful to not drag it through crab rangoons and duck sauce, and took the call.

I wanted to see Montrose on a screen larger than my phone.

“Merry Christmas,” he said when his face appeared on my screen. It seemed like he was on a laptop too, given how much of the room behind him I was seeing. He looked like his normal self, and yet…so…damn sexy. Deep brown hair tousled and looking like he’d just gotten out of bed. Tired face with a few days of beard growth, but with those intense, intelligent grey eyes looking straight at me. Or at least at the image of me. He had his laptop tilted at an angle so I just saw his head and the upper part of the room behind him. Lovely, tasteful drapes and an ornate tray ceiling.

“Merry Christmas to you, too. Thank you for the dinner. You ordered way too much. But it’s fabulous.”

“You’re welcome. And I was thinking you could put the leftovers in the fridge in the corner for some other meal. There’s a microwave in the closet that you could pull out—I’ve never used it, I seldom have any leftovers when I order from there. Peking Delight has indeed been a delightful find in Schoolport.”

“We haven’t discovered them yet, but I’ll for sure be letting Jane and Lily know about them when they get back.”

“That would be Ms. Winters and Ms. Spaulding?”

“Yes,” I said, growing just a tiny tense speaking of Jane in front of him. I tried not to let it show on my face, by taking a sip of my soda.

“I knew you all sat together in class. I didn’t realize you were roommates.”

 
“Technically Lily and Jane are roommates, and they’re both my suitemates.”

He nodded and I waited, my breath still, to see if he’d ask more about Jane.

“Did I catch you right in the middle of eating?”

The angle of my laptop caught my full plate, so I just shrugged and said, “That’s okay. It will keep.”

“No, go ahead and eat while it’s still hot. I really just…”

“What?” I coaxed.

“Nothing. I should get going too.”

“Have you already done Christmas dinner?” I asked, then took a bite of my eggroll, as if to prove to him he wasn’t keeping me from my meal.

“Yeah, we got done about an hour ago. My parents went to friends of theirs for after dinner drinks. My sister and her boyfriend went to his parents’ place.”

I took another bite of eggroll and made a “mmm, goood” face while I chewed. “Not that anything would taste better right now—thanks, again—but what did your mom make for dinner?”

He laughed, and much as I loved hearing him laugh on the phone, it was so much better to be able to see him. To watch how his grin turned to a smile. How his strong throat moved and his eyes crinkled at the corners. “Dear God. Evelyn Montrose cook a holiday dinner?” He wagged his index finger back and forth. “No, no, dear,” he said, jaw clenched in a faux upper crust accent. “One does not cook for the holidays. One has it catered. So much better to be able to speak with your guest, you see.” He’d turned a little Thurston Howell III at the end, and for a second I thought he might call me Lovey.

“I see. Of course. What
was
I thinking?”

His grin stayed, but the fakeness dropped away. “It was—what did they call it—a standing rib roast.”

“Sounds fancy. Was it good?”

“Of course it was good. Evelyn wouldn’t serve anything but the best.” There wasn’t bitterness in his voice, but I wondered if there had once been when describing his mother. Certainly Aidan in
Folly
had secretly loathed the pretentiousness of his parents, even while enjoying all the perks of being well-off.

Had Montrose done so as well?

He’d said in numerous interviews that Aidan Colly was not Billy Montrose, but the outward similarities were numerous. Maybe he hadn’t even seen it himself.

Having read the book so many times, and now seeing a glimpse of Montrose himself… No. I couldn’t think like that. They were not the same.

He talked while I ate, taking sips from a beer every now and then. It felt oddly like we were sitting across from each other at a restaurant or something. And the conversation had that feel too, talking about mundane things, not about his work.

I followed his lead, not wanting to bring up Rachel/Esme, and run the risk of being relegated back to intermittent texts, not this wonderful FaceTiming. Because as much as a tiny thrill ran through me when his text tone went off, seeing his face as he spoke only to me, was waaaaay better.

No sharing him with the rest of the class. No wondering if his eyes would turn to me. No shifting my glance at Jane to see if she was flashing him “do me” eyes.

“Oh, my God, that was so amazing,” I said as I finished eating. “Thank you again. You really didn’t have to do that.”

He waved my objection away with a hand and I saw a flash of red on his arm. I’d never seen him wearing red before, not much of any color—he was a black/grey/white wearer mostly. “No problem. If you’re working for me on Christmas—” He held up a hand to stop my coming interruption. “And I know that’s your choice, that I’m not making you.” I relaxed. “Then the least I can do is feed you.”

“Well, thank you. It was really great. And I think I have enough leftovers to last me until New Year’s.” He laughed, but I wasn’t far from the truth.

We sat for a moment just looking at each other. I desperately wanted to reach out my hand and touch the screen, but knew it wasn’t appropriate, nor would it satisfy this building need I had to touch him ever since he’d sat so close to me on the edge of this very desk.
 

His eyes moved to the top of his laptop and I realized he was checking the time. My heart started beating more quickly as I searched for a way to keep him online, keep being able to see his gorgeous face. Maybe I should talk about work? I might piss him off, but at least he’d stay with me.

I hated that I’d just had that thought. It kind of reminded me of how I’d felt on Sunday at the mall, standing in front of the display of combat boots.

“Well, I guess I better get going,” he said.

“You probably have to be somewhere,” I said, though there was just a tiny hint of question in my voice at the end.

“Yeah, well sort of. I’ve got this thing…”

A lump formed in my throat, but I shoved it down and just smiled and nodded at him. “Uh-huh.”

“It’s just a group…they’re my guy friends from Brown. One of them is getting married next week.”

“Oh, a bachelor party? That sounds like fun.” It actually sounded like some lucky stripper getting to grind herself all over Montrose while I sat in his chair and had my third eggroll. I swiveled a little in the old wooden chair. It was comfy with its worn leather seat, but the slatted wooden arms curved around—totally inappropriate for a lap dance. But then, giving my boss a lap dance in his office chair wouldn’t be real appropriate either. Not that I’d ever given a lap dance.

But I’d certainly be willing to with Montrose.

“No, the bachelor party is this weekend. And I’m not even sure I’m going to that. This is just a quiet thing. Just a few of us having a couple of drinks. Oh, and cigars. Someone said there would be brandy and cigars. I guess we’re trying to prove we’re grown up now.”

“Well, one of you is getting married. Isn’t that proving that you’re grown up enough?”

He grinned—God, how I loved when he did that. “I will definitely make that point. Maybe it will be argument enough to get us out of the brandy and cigar thing and we can just go to a bar and have a beer.”

“That sounds much better to me.”

“Yeah, me too.” He looked at the clock on his laptop again. “Listen, I wanted to mention something about the last time we actually talked.”

Oh, shit. That’s why he wanted to FaceTime…he was going to fire me. The dinner was probably my parting gift. “Listen, I’m so sorry for overstepping. I was just caught up in the work.
Your
work. Definitely your work and I won’t ever—”

“Syd,” he said loudly, cutting me off. I realized he’d said my name several times as I’d rambled on, fighting for my job. Though it somehow felt like I was fighting for more. “Stop,” he said more gently, his hands up in a “calm down” gesture. “You didn’t overstep.” He ran his hand through his hair, tousling it more. And yep, definitely wearing something red. “Or, maybe you did. But if you did, I thank you for it.”

I sat back in the chair, not able to hide my relief. But he felt further away from me, so I leaned onto the desk again, dragging my elbow into an open soy sauce packet. I didn’t even care, and just nudged it away. “Seriously?” I tentatively asked.

He nodded. “Seriously. Why I wanted to talk about it was because of how I reacted to it.”

“You were fine on the phone,” I pointed out.

He sat back a little. “I know. I loved talking about it all with you.”

“I did too.”

“But after I got off the phone, the little insecure writer on my shoulder started whispering to me.”

“What did he say?” I asked, fascinated. Was the little guy on his shoulder similar to the one that sat on my shoulder at the mall that same day? And, let’s face it, pretty much all the time.

He waved a hand. “Oh, the usual. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing.
Folly
was a fluke, never to happen again.’”

“You don’t believe him, do you?”

He put his hand down, got very still, looked directly into the camera. Directly at me. “I didn’t when I was on the phone with you,” he said softly.

I knew that I needed to say the right thing. Something about him believing in himself, and not listening to the asshole on his shoulder. But instead, I leaned closer and looked at the camera and said very quietly, “Then don’t stop calling me.”

He just stared at me with those grey eyes, and I felt like I was at a major fork in the road of my life. And that I wasn’t the one who got to choose which path to take. As I held my breath, he slowly—sooo slowly—nodded his head once. “I won’t,” he said in nearly a whisper.

“Good,” I mouthed back, not even able to get the word out.

I saw his shoulder move and it seemed like he wanted to reach out to the screen as I had wanted to earlier. He caught himself as he looked at his moving arm. “Oh, right,” he said. “The reason I wanted to FaceTime. I wanted to show you what my mother gave me for Christmas.” He tilted his screen so I could see—finally—all of him and not just his face and the ceiling. (Not that there was anything wrong with that face!)

I burst out laughing when I saw that he wore the ugliest Christmas sweater I’d ever seen. “Like, as a joke, right? She gave that to you as a joke? Because you’re all going to an ugly Christmas sweater party or something?”

He was laughing too, as he watched me crack up. He held out the sweater so I could see all of the crazy, geometric, green and red design. “No. Not a joke. At least not to her. She gave my sister one similar to this, but for a girl. She was mortified to wear it to her boyfriend’s parents’ place tonight, but you could tell my mother loved them and expected us to wear them.”

“I mean…seriously?” I knew the sweater was probably from some fancy designer and most likely cost more than four pairs of combat boots, but cost did not always necessarily equate to good taste. And in this case. Uh…no. Just…no.

He laughed again, then got out of his chair, tilted the laptop more and did a pirouette in front of the camera so I could see the back of it, which wasn’t any better than the front. Though I didn’t really notice it—not with his ass looking so great in his jeans.

“Good luck with the guys wearing that thing,” I said.

“I know. I’m going to take such shit from them,” he said, still smiling as he sat back in his chair. “The things we do for our mothers, right?”

I just nodded, but didn’t say anything. Five years ago I had stopped trying to do anything that would please my mother.