4. Whitney
4
WHITNEY
M y first day as a soon-to-be-married woman begins with a meeting with a lawyer. As solid as Trent seems, I figure I should get a second opinion. I find some guy online and fork up an obscene amount of money to meet with him and go over the inheritance documents. My hope is that the whole marriage clause isn’t legally binding and, somehow, I can access my inheritance another way.
No such luck.
After two hours of research, there’s not a single loophole to be found. It looks like if I want my money, I’ll have to put a ring on it and soon. If I don’t complete the terms of the marriage clause, my entire inheritance sum gets passed to the next beneficiary, whoever that is.
When I get home that afternoon, something is different in the apartment. At first, I’m not sure what it is. I think maybe it’s me — that my new mission has somehow changed my perspective on life — but then I realize that’s ridiculous, and what’s changed is that in the entryway where my shoe rack is, there’s a pair of size twelves sitting on the ground.
Men’s shoes.
He’s here? Already?
I tiptoe towards the kitchen, listening intently for any indication that he’s here.
What am I doing? Sneaking around my own apartment like some thief in the night? This is my home! Part of me wants nothing more than to march right up to his door, introduce myself, and explain that he really cannot be living here. But a bigger part of me needs to shower. Like, now. So instead of confronting my mystery roommate, I go to my room to get my towel. It’s not until I’ve stripped down and wrapped my towel around me that it occurs to me.
I have to share a bathroom with this man!
What if he’s in there?
What if he’s shitting?
Okay, Whitney. You really need to get it together.
Ignoring the crazy voice in my head that happens to be my own, I slip out of my room and down the hall to the bathroom, which is mercifully empty. I take my time in the shower, shampooing and conditioning my hair and even doing a face mask, if only to prove that this bathroom is mine, and I will not be changing my habits for anyone.
When I get out, the apartment is still quiet, so I slink back to my room and order some ramen for delivery. I open and close every app on my phone and doomscroll on Twitter for at least twenty minutes before I finally give up and take out my notebook.
Step one: get married
I start over.
Step one: get married
Step one: meet a man who is not insane (difficult)
Step two: get married
Pushing down the urge to stop there, I finish my list with a grimace.
Step three: business plan for the salon
Step four: find location
Step five: think of trendy name
I put the list away when my food arrives and eat in the kitchen, looking over my shoulder every five minutes, wondering if he will make an appearance. But there’s nothing. Not even a peep from his side of the apartment. Once I finish eating, I try to keep working on the list, but it suddenly looks pathetic. It feels like my brain is devoid of any good ideas, and the list of potential names for the salon is downright criminal. Hair Haus? I hate myself for even writing that down.
Instead, I decide to download Hinge and make a profile, spending way too long trying to come up with responses to the prompts.
What I’m looking for? A fake husband.
You should *not* go out with me if… you don’t want to get married.
All I ask is that you… marry me.
That’s how I fall asleep: with my phone in my hand, open to a photo of a man holding a fish.
I wake to complete darkness, my throat dry and itchy. Checking the time, I realize it’s almost three in the morning. I reach over for my water and find it empty. With a sigh, I roll out of bed and trudge into the kitchen. The light from the fridge is blinding as I pour from the Britta. I chug it down in three gulps, then pour another glass and close the fridge.
I hear something, and I turn around.
“ Ahh !” The scream bursts out of me when I see the silhouette of a man in my kitchen. I stumble backwards and flip on the light switch, the fluorescent bulb glaring as I blink furiously, trying to take in the scene in front of me.
“Christ, that’s bright,” the man says.
Holy hell.
He’s hot.
Like, really hot.
He’s shirtless, standing in nothing but his boxer briefs, his rich brown hair tussled in a mess on his head. Dark tattooed lines cover his broad chest and toned arms, and boy is there a lot to cover. His jawline is sharp, and he’s scrubbing his scruffy beard with his very… large… hand. Usually I’m more into a cleaned up, preppy sort of guy; my ex was that type; but something about this man’s rugged, messy look has my nerve endings tingling.
I need to get laid, like, yesterday.
“Um. Hi?” I squeak.
He eyes me, his dark eyes pinning me in place as he scans me from head to toe. His gaze is intense and causes all sorts of unexpected somersaults in my stomach.
“Hi,” he replies, brushing past me towards the fridge. He pulls out a carton of orange juice — my carton of orange juice, actually — and takes a long pull. Straight from the bottle.
“Is that my orange juice?” I ask.
He turns and finally pulls the jug away from his mouth, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. He doesn’t say anything as he puts it back in the fridge and closes the door.
“Well?” I prompt him, getting frustrated by his brick wall demeanor.
He just shrugs.
“Night,” he says, pushing off the counter and heading back towards his bedroom. I hate myself for the way my gaze watches him go, tracing the muscular lines of his back.
What the hell was that?
First of all, it definitely was my orange juice, so we are going to need to have a conversation about that. Secondly, he is so rude! Why was he being so standoffish? He barely even said a word to me and we’re going to be living together for God knows how long! Well, not for very long, I hope. Third… wow. I mean, wow. What is the guy, a male model? A firefighter? Some kind of walking cologne ad? This is worse than any other scenario — not only do I have some random guy living with me, but now I’m attracted to him.
Flipping off the lights, I drag myself back to my bedroom. The grumpy roommate will have to wait until the morning.
The next day, I wake up with my body sprawled across my bed like a starfish. It’s late in the afternoon, and there is definitely some drool on my pillow. My unemployment has officially reached depressing territory.
Get up and get your life together, woman!
With a sigh, I turn out of the bed and grab my robe, wrapping it around my body and dragging myself to the bathroom. I scrub my face, the cold water jolting me awake, then saunter into the kitchen. The first thing I do is take my orange juice out of the fridge, eyeing the jug like it’s got some bacterial disease. I put it back immediately, opting for coffee instead.
Memories of my late-night encounter with my new roommate flash through my mind, and I’m only alone in the kitchen for a few minutes before the Grump himself comes sauntering into the room. His eyes flicker briefly in my direction as he approaches the coffee machine. He pops in a pod and turns, leaning against the counter, his expression blank. As he reaches his hand to scratch the back of his head, his shirt rides up, revealing those toned muscles and dark lines that I ogled over last night.
My stomach drops at the sight.
“So, what was your problem last night?” I ask, my walls raising.
“My problem?” He raises his eyebrows and turns his back to me, picking up his coffee cup and walking over to the couch.
“You barely said a word to me,” I say with a definite edge to my voice. Much to my own frustration, I follow him, sitting in the chair across from him.
“It was three in the morning,” he grunts and spreads out on the couch, his huge body taking up what feels like half the room. “I was half-asleep.”
I huff out a breath. “Well, nice to meet you. Really, I just need to tell you that I’m sorry for whatever deal Olivia led you to believe there was, but there’s been a mistake. The room is not available.”
“You mean my room?” He narrows his eyes at me.
“It’s not your room,” I retort.
“Well, I’m living in it.”
“For like a day!” I screech, shocking myself by how upset I’m getting. I’m usually much calmer than this. “Look, I don’t even know you. You can’t live here. It’s too weird.”
“Oh, come on, love. You’ll hardly notice I’m here,” he replies, his British accent coming out stronger than I noticed it before, along with the condescension dripping in his words.
“The bottom line is you cannot stay here.”
“Why not?”
“Because! I don’t even know you. I don’t even know your name.”
“My name is Liam. Born outside London, moved to the States to live with my dad when I was in high school, stuck around here to get a couple degrees, then fucked that off. Now I’m a bartender, and I mind my own. There, now you know me.” He pushes off the couch, making a move to leave, but I stand, stopping him.
“That is not good enough. That’s barely anything,” I tell him.
He frowns down at me, his gaze pinning me into place. “That’s more than most people get.”
“Don’t you want to know my name? Know anything about me?” I cock my head to the side, trying to match the intensity of his gaze.
He sighs heavily and rubs his stubble with his hand, a gesture that seems to be common for him, and one that I find myself staring at with way too much interest.
“Alright. What’s your name, then?”
“Whitney.”
He motions for me to keep going, then folds his arms as though growing impatient.
Realizing I don’t know what to say, I let honest words tumble out of me. “I’m not really from anywhere. I grew up on the road with my mom. I just quit my job which is really unlike me because I’m a Virgo which means I rely on structure and organization and lately I feel like a total mess, which is not good because now I have a complete stranger moving into my apartment.”
He stares at me, unblinking.
“So… okay. I feel worse,” I say.
He still doesn’t respond.
“Well, maybe you’d like to discuss which shelf in the fridge you’d like to be yours? I prefer the top, but if you want the top, I can be middle and we can split the bottom.”
“Sure,” he replies, looking bored.
God, would it kill the guy to smile?
“Listen, buddy. I don’t know what your last roommate dealt with, but I won’t take your bad attitude all the time. The least you can do is try to be nice, or just tell me if you’re in a bad mood.”
Without warning, his bored expression turns harsh — livid. His jaw locks, and he stares down at me, his chest rising and falling. Inexplicably, my gaze is drawn to the deep green shade of his eyes, speckled with hazel in the morning light.
“I don’t care, princess. I’ll pay you rent on time, and you’ll hardly know I’m here. Now fuck off and let me be.” He barks the words out, and before I can respond, he sweeps past me and stomps down the hall, slamming his door behind him.
I’m left gaping, standing in the living room like an idiot.
He is… the worst!
I can’t believe he just told me to fuck off to my face.
I don’t know if anyone has ever said that to me before. Actually, I know nobody has ever said that to me before, because most of the people I associate with are civilized, kind individuals who use their words to communicate. I have half a mind to call housing authority and get him forcibly removed from the premises. Do the police do that? Who do you call to get your stranger-turned-roommate to get out?
Whatever. Forget him.
It’s time to focus on the important stuff. The salon. The husband hunt.
Is it too soon to start shopping for giant scissors?