The cereal crunches obnoxiously as Wade leans against my doorframe, his bare ass probably leaving prints on the wood. 'So laundry,' he says through a mouthful of Lucky Charms, 'your turn or mine?' I throw a pillow at him, which he catches with his stupid perfect reflexes. 'Yours. And put some pants on before I web you to the ceiling.' He waggles his eyebrows, the water bottle doing absolutely nothing for modesty. 'Someone's cranky before coffee.' An hour later, we're nose-to-nose arguing over Housewives rankings when I notice his towel slipping. Again. 'Phaedra over Nene? Are you brain damaged?' I snap. Wade grins, that infuriating grin that makes my stomach flip. 'Tell him he's wrong,' he stage-whispers to the fourth wall. My traitorous brain supplies images of that grin in very different circumstances. The TV blares as Kenya throws wine, but all I hear is blood rushing in my ears. Then Wade's eyes drop to my lap. Oh shit. Am I...? Before I can adjust my sweatpants, he's leaning closer. 'Interesting reaction, Petey.' My face burns. Do I double down on anger, play it cool, or finally admit why his antics get under my skin?