Designer: Q Design
Strike One-My mother named me Theodore after her favorite chipmunk.
Not cool, Mom.
I‘ve spent most of my life answering to Teddy, because I couldn’t make Theo work.
Except for here. College. The place where all bets are off, and I’ve managed to redeem myself.
There’s only one problem, my new roommate, Troy, is football royalty and looks like he stepped off the set of an Abercrombie shoot.
Doesn’t matter, I cook a mean breakfast for his panty parade, and we get along well.
And anyway, this year I got the girl. And she’s perfect.
That’s right. Theodore Houseman, former band geek, now marching band rock star has finally landed the girl of his dreams.
Everything is perfect.
That is, until Troy takes a good look at her.
I’m not going down without a fight. As a matter of fact, I’m not going down at all. As glorious as these days may be for my all-star roommate, Laney is my end game.
I may not know much about play strategy, but I’ve been the good guy my whole life. I’ve been listening and I know exactly what women want. Framed in a picture standing next to me, Troy may seem like Mr. Perfect, but he’s underestimating the guy on the right.
Spoiler alert: In this story, the underdog is going to win.
True love exists. I’m a believer in it, but maybe just not for the women in my family.
We’re too loud, independent, opinionated.
Or maybe I’m hangry.
“Better them than me,” I say before turning on my heel and slamming into a talking rock.
“Couldn’t agree more.” Large, muscular hands are the only thing keeping me from sprawling into the asphalt.
“Sorry,” I say before looking up…into the sun. Squinting, I see thick lips, brilliant straight teeth, and amused bright-blue eyes. “Sorry,” I repeat as he comes into view covering the brilliant light with his massive presence. Rusty blond hair, unbelievable build, a killer smile. My reaction is immediate. “Nope,” I say sidestepping him.
“Nope?” He asks with a chuckle. I’m a step away when I realize he hasn’t unhanded me.
“That arm belongs to me,” I say softly, eyes trained on my boots.
Don’t look up. Do. NOT. LOOK. UP.
My eyes lift on their own accord, well technically it’s my evil self-sabotaging Va-Gina.
Damn it, Gina!
A feeling I’m all too familiar with spreads through me as I drink him in. I may be on the wagon, but I can still appreciate the perfect male specimen.
Poison Ivy is pretty too, Gina, we’re done here.
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