“I didn’t take you for a puttering-around-in-Crocs kinda guy,” I say, following him out the door.
He grunts, leading me up the stairwell. “They’re practical.”
“I would advise you not to wear those in public. Especially in front of women, if you want to get laid,” I say, failing to muffle my snort-laughter.
“Does it look like I need help getting laid?” he asks over his shoulder.
I swallow. Definitely not.
Not three minutes later, Trevor and I are wrapped in flimsy towels, teeth chattering, freezing our asses off on the roof. This rooftop is nothing like one of those fancy high-rises with a lush garden and pergola draped with twinkle lights. It’s sparse, with an ancient covered barbecue and some rickety, cobweb-infested lawn chairs. Luckily, the building is too low to take the brunt of the harsh wind.
I’m shivering so violently, I don’t even stop to admire the picturesque view of the dilapidated four-story directly to our left. Confused and wildly annoyed, I’m about to flee back inside when Trevor nudges me to the right. Behind a massive rusted square structure housing an exhaust fan is something unexpected.
A hot tub.
It’s randomly placed. Kind of like the hot tubs that magically appear at opportune moments on The Bachelor. Surrounded by a plastic deck area and a bench, the hot tub itself is tiny. I’d guess it seats a maximum capacity of four people, and even that’s pushing it. I lean over to inspect. It’s ancient, but void of gross hairs and questionable debris. And if neurotic Trevor seems to think it’s appropriate for use, it must be so.
“Hot tub time machine. It’s a great place to overanalyze,” Trevor announces, tossing his towel on the bench before pulling the cover off the hot tub. With every twist and stride, he emits a certain brand of dangerous energy in his wide, dominating, UFC-like stance. I imagine a toxic rock anthem partially drowned out by thunderous applause from a bloodthirsty live audience.
“Har-har, you are so clever,” I say, holding my robe closed.
Trevor lowers himself chest-deep in the water, his eyes closed as the misty vapor coils upward, disappearing into the brisk air around him.
I hesitate to follow. Sure, I’m desperate to escape the frigid winter air in favor of the comfort of a warm bath, but the idea of sharing a pint-size hot tub with Trevor feels . . . intimate. Then again, we’re merely platonic, opposite-sex roommates, right?
My lustful gaze traces the lines of his broad shoulders above the surface of the frothy water, roped with the dense, effortless muscle of a man who spends his days busting doors down. The uncalled-for image of him in full fire gear, emerging from a collapsing building engulfed in flame, hurtles through my mind. A young woman’s limp body is draped across his arms like it’s no big deal. Just a normal day in the life of Trevor Metcalfe.
“Get in before you freeze.” His order snaps me back to reality.
Reflexively, my fingers clamp over the lapel of my robe, pulling it tighter, just teetering on the balls of my feet. He’s surely judging me like I’m a socially inept weirdo who doesn’t understand the mechanics of using a hot tub.
The very act of dropping my robe in front of him feels dangerous, a little illicit. I don’t know if it’s the mixture of trauma and alcohol from earlier, but it’s kind of thrilling. Some forgotten, seductive side of me—my alter ego, if you will—takes over entirely. I’m basically a Miss USA contestant during the bikini round, strutting my hot bod down the runway in five-inch heels. The moment the lights hit me, I wow the judges with a sassy yet classy pose before removing my sarong (robe) with an expert flick of the wrist.
Unfortunately for Trevor, he missed the entire thing. By the time I dramatically drape my robe over the back of the chair, he’s already closed his eyes, confirming that I’m a nonsexual being to him. I could be entirely nude, nipples out and about, and he probably couldn’t be bothered to steal a glance. Or maybe he’s so in love with Angie, he can’t bear to set his eyes upon another woman’s body.
Marginally comforted by this conclusion, I submerge myself as the jets start in a rumble of foamy bubbles. The heat envelops my body, contrasting the harsh chill.
Aside from the hum of the jets and the faint sound of traffic horns in the distance, it’s surprisingly tranquil. It reminds me of that time I went to a high-class spa with Mom and Crystal on Mother’s Day. I was nearly kicked out twice by an employee whose sole job was to walk around and shush people. Silence and I have never been more than distant acquaintances.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about this top secret hot tub,” I say.
Trevor squints at me through the mist, as though abruptly reminded of my presence. “Figured Scotty told you. And you never asked me about the amenities.”
“Because I didn’t think there were any. The building doesn’t even have a working elevator.”
“Well, now you know.” When he closes his eyes again, I’m transfixed by the little bubbles of vapor on his unfairly thick lashes.
“This sucks balls,” I whine, unable to stop dwelling on the night. I sink neck-deep in the tub, cozying against a jet. “Brandon was eighty percent there. I didn’t have a ton of expectations for Jeff. But I had a good feeling about Brandon. I kind of expected things to fall into place.”
“Hate to break it to you, but Brandon wasn’t eighty percent,” he tells me gruffly.
“He was.” I stare upward to the inky black sky. “He and I get along so well. Always did. Back in college we spent hours together and never ran out of things to talk about. We’re aligned on everything when it comes to morals and—”
“Fifty. Maximum,” Trevor cuts in. “He didn’t want the same things as you, period. What were you gonna do? Travel with him for months, hating your life, only to realize he doesn’t want to settle down? It woulda been a big waste of time. You could be compatible as chocolate and peanut butter, but what does it matter if you don’t want the same things?”
I do like chocolate and peanut butter. But that’s neither here nor there. Why must Trevor make me confront harsh truths? Brandon and I didn’t want the same things. Sure, he and I could have been happy together in a snapshot in time. But a full life with him would mean giving up everything I value and leaving my family and friends behind. I’m always willing to compromise for love, but uprooting my entire life for travel and zero commitment doesn’t seem worth it.
Troubled by the realization, I elect to change the subject entirely. “Do you bring all your ladies up here?”
Trevor appears preoccupied with his mountain of bubbles, pushing them left to right. I take his lack of verbal response as a yes.
“I’ve heard hot tub sex sucks,” I say, mostly to rattle him.
This gets his attention. “I beg to differ.” His voice comes out low and strained, which does something to my insides.
I dry-swallow the lump in my throat. Am I turned on right now? I readjust myself in my seat, away from the blast of the jet. It’s the jets. It must be the jets. It means nothing. Anyone who shares a tiny apartment with a dangerously attractive man is going to get hot and bothered every so often. It’s basic science.
“It’s like the shower,” I say. “It’s a hot fantasy, but in reality, it’s too much friction. And there’s a high risk of urinary tract infection. Especially in here. Who knows how many weirdos from this building have used it.”
A slight smile plays across his lips, but he doesn’t respond. I’ve officially made it awkward. Perhaps it’s too early to talk about sex with Trevor. We’ve only known each other for two months.
“Did you know my social media followers are obsessed with you?”
He freezes. “What?”
“You haven’t followed me yet?” I sigh, disappointed. “That time you came into my room, I was still on Live. You were in the video for a split second, and my followers liked what they saw.”
“I see. I don’t know whether to be flattered or weirded out,” he says, unimpressed with himself. It strikes me that Trevor exudes a unique brand of confidence. He carries himself with a self-assured gait, yet he doesn’t seem to know how to take a compliment. His humor is a little self-deprecating, just like mine.
Before I can respond, the rooftop door creaks open. A short, stubby man with a wispy white comb-over comes sauntering around the corner, impossibly tiny towel curled around his neck.
Trevor gives me a classic Jim from The Office look. The wide-eyed one he does into the camera when Michael Scott says or does something obscene.
“Evening.” The man nods politely as he swings a ghostly white leg into the water, testing the temperature.