Page 51 of Wrong For Me

“Hey, I’m notthatbad,” I try, but the second our eyes meet we both start laughing all over again.

“Sit down,” she says when we’ve finally calmed down. “I’m going to eat my lunch and then get some work done. I promise I won’t distract you.”

Since there’s no way to tell her that it’s her mere presence I find distracting without sounding like a pathetic fool, I go over to my desk and pull out the brown paper bag I’d stashed there earlier. I refuse to look over at Rose to see what she’s eating, but it smells amazing. A far cry from the cheese sandwich I packed.

I’m determined to eat my lunch and get a start on this application, regardless of the pretty blonde sitting a mere five feet away. But Rose Ransome seems determined to test my resolve. Not only does her lunch smell amazing, she’s making these happy little food noises that I’m having a damned hard time ignoring. It’s almost a cross between a moan and a sigh, just barely audible over the humming of the ancient air conditioner, and it’s going straight to my dick.

I eat my sad little sandwich in about three seconds, trying not to think about how there’s only more of the same to look forward to for the duration of the weekend. I have to pay Bodhi’s friend when I finally pick up my car in the morning and I doubt there’s going to be much left over in the bank account for groceries.

A couple days of cheese sandwiches won’t kill you,I remind myself. God knows I’ve had worse options over the years.

It’s hard to remember that, though, when Rose is sitting there, happily munching away on whatever it is that smells so good, making those damn noises that sound way too close to the noises she made when we—

“You want some of this?”

I jump in my seat, wondering if she somehow managed to read my mind. She can’t possibly be asking me if I want—

“It’s spicy,” she continues. “But it’s yours if you want it.”

When I just stare at her, jaw practically unhinged, uncertainty crosses her face. She holds up a plastic container. “Tikka Masala? From that Indian place over on Fifth? It’s my favorite but their portion sizes are insane. Way more than I can eat.”

It takes me a minute to pull my mind out of the gutter and realize she’s talking about food. “Oh.” I cough, trying to get it together. “No. I mean. No, thank you.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Really? Because your stomach is growling like crazy.”

I hadn’t realized she heard that. “I, uh, didn’t pack the biggest lunch today.”

She waves the container around. “Which is why I’m offering you some of this. Come on, there’s a ton. They really do have crazy servings.”

I study her, trying to determine if she’s taking pity on me for my pathetic lunch and whether or not I care when I’m this damn hungry. Her food does smell amazing, and the Indian restaurant over on Fifth is one of my favorite places for take-out. On the rare occasions I have cash to blow on things like take-out.

Rose heaves a sigh and stands, crossing the short distance to my desk, and drops the plastic container on top of it. Then she spins around, pulls open the top drawer of my filing cabinet, and grabs my emergency box of Swiss Cake Rolls. “I’ve been coveting these since I saw you pull one out on Tuesday,” she says, slipping a plastic-wrapped cake from the box. “Now we’re even.”

I’m too surprised that she noticed my secret stash to say anything. Bodhi likes to tease me about my childish love for cheap snack cakes—as if the guy who eats marshmallow cereal for breakfast has any room to talk. For my birthday last year, he bought me about twenty boxes. I’ve been carefully rationing them ever since. God knows my budget doesn’t have a line for snack cakes.

My immediate reaction, born from years of not having quite enough food as a child, is to snatch the cake out of her hand. But the logical part of my brain makes an appearance, reminding me that a full meal far outweighs a measly Swiss Cake Roll.

“Thank you,” I manage to grit out. “It was driving me crazy how good that smelled.”

She smiles huge, her gorgeous face bright and happy. “Right? I freaking love their Tikka Masala, even if it does burn a hole in my tongue.”

“Amateur,” I say, unable to stop the grin from spreading.

She laughs. “I know, I know. I’m kind of a baby when it comes to spicy foods.”

“Yet you still order it.”

She shrugs. “I always say I’m going to get request mild but I just can’t help myself. It’s like, painful, but worth it. Because it’s so good, you know?”

Painful but worth it. Because it’s so good.Damn. That could easily be a description of Rose herself.

Thankfully she goes back to her own desk to eat the snack cake. This time I don’t have to hear her pornographic food noises because I have the take-out to distract me. The tikka masala is every bit as good as I remember it being, though to be honest, I’m hungry enough I’d probably think slop tasted good.

Without a growling belly to keep me occupied, I pull up the documents on the fellowship requirements, making notes as I read through them. It’s standard stuff, but that doesn’t mean it will be easy. The application looks pretty extensive and requires a detailed prospective of the research I’m hoping to do. They’re also asking for recommendation letters, an essay, and an in-person interview. None of which I really have time for between my classes and my TA work.

But it’s not like I have much choice. The grant that comes with the fellowship would pay for my tuition next semester, allowing me to use a bigger chunk of my financial aid for living expenses. Combined with my TA pay, I’d be much more comfortable. I might even be able to avoid working next summer. There are several unpaid but highly prestigious summer internships Hernandez has encouraged me to try for over the years, but it’s never been an option for me. Not when I’ve needed to save enough busting my ass over the summer for the next year’s rent and food.

Speaking of my depressing financial situation—my phone beeps with a message from my roommate.