Jenny
T oday is move-in day for my new roommate, which means a sleepless night beforehand for me, then three feverish hours scrubbing the apartment until it shines. I want to make a good impression, right? I know I’m not what most people want in a roommate, but hey—I’m clean and tidy, and I’ll do my half of taking out the trash.
Hopefully that’s enough.
God, please let it be enough. I don’t want to put out another room ad.
Back home, my family used to tease me for being such a lurker. Keeping to my own room; moving around quietly at night. They called me the family poltergeist.
And that’s when they were being nice about it. My brother pointedly sent me an article once about a murderer who lived in his victims’ walls.
I’m not sure who was more relieved when I finally moved out of my parents’ house to live here in the city—me or them. Don’t get me wrong, I love my family, but after spending twenty years in the same house…
It was a lot. We all needed some space.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket, and I pause in scrubbing the kitchen sink, breathing hard with strands of blonde hair stuck to my forehead. It takes me a second to fumble my pink rubber glove off, and then I’m frowning down at a text from an unknown number.
Delete. That’s my first instinct. Delete, block, stick my phone on airplane mode. Never let the universe bother me again. Except my thumb freezes over the screen, thank god, and sweat slides down my spine.
Because it’s my new roommate.
Duh.
Five minutes away. Lincoln.
I stare at the name, my pulse thudding in my ears. I’ve never lived with a man before. My dad and brothers don’t count. When I got Lincoln’s message about the room, I nearly turned him down right away, but something stopped me. An instinct. A strange urge—no, a need to meet him.
But I was tipsy, and riding the sugar high of three bowls of ice cream. Not making good decisions, clearly.
My thumb shakes as I type out a quick reply, adding a smiley face and then deleting it before hitting send. Shoving the phone back in my jeans pocket, I tug off the other rubber glove, then stash my cleaning supplies under the sink, letting out slow, measured breaths the whole time.
It’s fine. It’s fine. My parents have Lincoln’s details—if anything weird happens, if my mangled body turns up in a sewer, they’ll know who did it. This is a smart, reasonable decision. I am being financially responsible.
Ugh.
My stomach lurches as I leave the sparkling kitchen, and I’m not sure if it’s nerves about meeting Lincoln or the memory of that stupid ice cream.
* * *
Lincoln is gorgeous. Fuck my life. I stare at the man unloading his bags from the trunk of a cab onto the sidewalk, my face frozen in a mask of dismay. Thick, dark hair shifts in the breeze and hangs over his forehead; keen gray eyes flick to me then away as he goes to pay the cab driver.
A black t-shirt hugs his strong chest and toned shoulders, the dye faded from wear and multiple washes. Vivid tattoos spill out from his sleeves, wrapping around his muscled arms, and reach all the way down to his wrists.
A camera bag is slung around his neck, and his worn jeans hug his ass. His brown leather boots are those no-nonsense type, the sort that could grind me under his heel.
The cab pulls away, and Lincoln turns to face me. Oh, boy. Here we go.
I clear my throat and make sure my tongue is in my mouth.
“Hi.” I know from our brief text exchange that Lincoln just got back from a work trip to the Sahara, but from my hoarse voice, I sound like the one with the terrible thirst. I raise a hand, my fingertips still puckered from three hours in rubber gloves. Gross. “I’m .”
“Good to meet you, .”
Yikes, his voice is deep. There’s a roughness to it, too, like the growl of a motor engine, but Lincoln’s mouth quirks up as he shoulders his bags and scoops a large box off the sidewalk. He walks closer, holding it up like he’s presenting an offering, gray eyes sparkling with humor.
Even when he’s smiling, his eyebrows are pinched in a slight frown.
“This is for you.”
The breeze cools my cheeks as I crane my head, reading the words on the side. Cars rumble past in the street. “It’s a microwave.”
“So it is.”
A brand new, heavy microwave in a bulky box, balanced on the palm of his hand, no less. I reach for it, ready to carry it up the stairs since he’s already laden with bags, but Lincoln holds it over my head as if it weighs nothing. Damn.
I gnaw on my lip, watching his bicep bulge, and god, what is wrong with me? It’s like I’ve never seen a grown man before.
“Nope, I got it. Lead the way, .”
Right. I spin on my heel, cheeks flushing, and jog up the steps to my—to our building. The front door is open, and Lincoln’s steps are deceptively quiet as he follows me across the empty lobby. Like he’s in stealth mode. Feeling his eyes on my back, I kinda wish I dressed in something nicer than jeans and a thin cream sweater today.
“The elevator doesn’t work.” I throw the words over my shoulder, eyes skating over my new roommate then away. He’s too much to look at. Talk about overwhelm. “Sorry. But I can help with your bags—”
“I’ve got it.”
Our shoes smack against the stairs, and my breaths come embarrassingly fast. Am I unfit, or am I just panting over my gorgeous new roommate?
Hard to tell.
But he’s so much. His presence fills the narrow stairway; even without looking back at him, I’m hyper aware of his every movement. The rustle of his clothes and the deep, steady pull of his breaths; the masculine scent that fills my nose with each inhale.
Lincoln’s not gasping for air. He might as well be strolling empty-handed down a sidewalk.
“This is us.” I fumble with the key, my grip sweaty and numb, but he says nothing. Just waits behind me, piled high with bags. “I, um. The apartment isn’t much.” The door swings open, and I lead my new roommate inside, nerves gnawing at my ribs. “You’ll see now why it’s so cheap.”
Lincoln’s rough chuckle makes my belly tighten as he trails me through the cramped living room. “Relax, . It’s just a place to crash.”
No it’s not. Not to me.
See, out there everything is too loud and brash and bright and overwhelming. Danger lurks on every corner, and people are so freaking mean . The world outside that apartment door is a gauntlet to be run, but in here…
It’s quiet. Safe. Mine.
Mine, and now Lincoln’s. Part of me wants to double check that he read all the requirements on my listing—that he won’t throw parties or smoke or whatever—but I know that’s crazy. What am I gonna do, throw him out when he’s already here? And besides, he brought the microwave. He clearly read the ad.
“I won’t be here for long.”
My feet catch on the threadbare rug and I stumble, catching my balance at the last second. Is it really that bad? I peer around us with panicked eyes. Will I need to put out another freaking listing?
The sofa is lumpy, yeah, and the cushions are sagging. There’s an old coffee stain on one arm from before I moved in. The coffee table is scuffed, and there’s barely room to walk around the furniture before you’re bumping into walls, and the sounds of the street are always loud, even in the middle of the night.
The other rooms are no better, either. But what happened to this only being a place to crash?
I hug my waist, turning to Lincoln. He’s unhooking the bags from his shoulders, lowering them to the rug with a grimace and a sigh. Guess they were heavy, after all. “Um. I cleaned earlier, but I could go over the apartment again…”
“That’s not it.” My new roommate taps the camera bag still slung around his neck. “I never stay in one place, . Not for long.”
“Oh.”
Why is my stomach sinking like that? It’s a pain to find another roommate, sure, but it’s not that big of a deal. But from the way my insides are squirming, you’d think I desperately want this man to stay.
Two seconds, he’s been here, and it’s like I’m gonna sit on the floor, hug his strong thigh, and beg him not to go. I really need to get more sleep.
“I’ll give you plenty of notice, though.” Lincoln’s frowning at me, visibly concerned as he tugs off the camera bag and sets it on the coffee table. “And I’ll help you find another roommate. Relax, sweetheart.”
Relax?
Sweetheart?
I sway toward him, hugging my waist tighter, like I’ve been yanked by an invisible string, but I don’t get this. I don’t get any of this.
I don’t like people. Period. And I definitely don’t like being around strange men. They’re harsh and unpredictable. Untrustworthy and crude.
“I am relaxed,” I rasp.
Lincoln’s mouth quirks up on one side. His gray eyes say: liar.
“Please give me a full month’s notice,” I say then, snippy as hell, because it’s that or melt into a muddle of confused, sad goo on the floor. It takes effort, but I turn on my heel and march out of the living room, because hey, it’s a tiny apartment. He doesn’t really need a tour.
No, Lincoln doesn’t need anything from me, and he’ll be gone soon anyway, stranger or not.
Damn it.