Chapter 1
Ainsley
By the time the doorbell rings, my living room smells like lemon cleaner, my shirt is stuck to my back with sweat, and I am one minor inconvenience away from hunting down my ex–best friend with a shovel.
Not that I'd actually bury her in my garden. The tomatoes don't deserve that kind of bad juju.
I toss the cleaning rag onto the coffee table and stare at the front door as if it personally betrayed me.
"This is your fault, Kelsey," I mutter under my breath, wiping my palms on my leggings.
"If you hadn't skipped town with my savings, I wouldn't be renting my spare room to a total stranger off the internet. "
The bell rings again, a second impatient ding that snaps my spine straight.
Right. Stranger. Background-checked, verified, allegedly normal stranger. Still a stranger.
I smooth a flyaway curl back into my ponytail, then immediately yank it out because it makes my face look rounder, and why am I thinking about my face when my entire life is about to become one long soap opera?
He's just a roommate, Ainsley. Month-to-month lease. Extra income. Not an audition for General Hospital.
I take a breath, straighten my spine, and unlock the deadbolt. The door swings open.
And my brain short-circuits.
Oh. Oh no.
The man on my porch is not the generic, forgettable "Construction worker.
Thompson Construction. Just moved to town.
Need place ASAP. Clean, quiet, no drama.
Rules fine," his messages implied. He is…
large. Broad. All shoulders and chest in a worn navy T-shirt that clings in all the places a T-shirt has no right to cling.
His duffel bag hangs off one thick forearm like it weighs nothing.
Tattoos disappear beneath the sleeve, hints of black ink against tan skin.
Faded jeans, scuffed boots planted wide, like he's braced for impact.
Dark hair a little too long on top, like he's overdue for a cut.
Deep lines around his mouth and eyes that tell stories I both do not need to know and very much want to.
Then there's his face.
Powerful jaw, dusted with dark scruff. Crooked nose that’s been broken at least once. Mouth firm, lips indecently full. His eyes—gray, sharp, assessing—land on mine, and I swear my ovaries stand up and salute.
I am completely, horrifyingly, shamelessly eye-fucking my new roommate on the front porch.
My gaze drags down his body, slow and greedy, like I've got a standing reservation at the buffet and zero self-control. Biceps. Veins on his forearms. Big hands. Thighs that strain the denim. A thick leather belt makes my brain supply images that should be illegal before noon on a Monday.
Heat punches low in my belly. My nipples tighten against my bra. My panties do a little swan dive toward oblivion.
Abort. Abort abort abort.
I jerk my eyes back up to his, my cheeks going nuclear. His mouth tips at the corner, just a little, like he knows exactly what my brain just did.
Professional, Ainsley. You put no flirting in bold. You are a responsible adult woman with a budget spreadsheet and a garden planner, not a horny raccoon.
"Hi," I blurt. My voice comes out higher than usual. Great. "You must be Troy."
He nods once. "Yeah. Ainsley?"
His voice is deep and rough, like gravel over velvet. Of course it is.
"Yep, that's me." I step back, gripping the doorknob to keep from fanning myself like a Victorian widow. "Come in. Um, sorry, I'm still finishing up some cleaning. Not that it was dirty. I just—like it extra clean. Before, you know, people…move in."
Smooth. Very smooth.
He steps over the threshold, and the tiny entryway shrinks around his size. The house is small but cute—cozy, I tell myself when the mortgage is due—and he fills it like he was built for bigger spaces. He smells of soap and something woodsy, fresh air and a hint of motor oil.
My thighs clench.
Get it together.
"Can I, uh"—I gesture vaguely at the duffel—"help?"
His left brow lifts, as if the idea of me carrying any part of his luggage is amusing. "Got it." He slings the bag higher on his shoulder. The muscles in his arm flex. I stare. Again.
Stop. Staring.
"Right, okay." I clear my throat and gesture down the short hallway. "So, this is the house. Obviously." I want to smack myself. "Um, living room, kitchen's through there, bathroom and bedrooms down the hall. You'll be on the left."
He follows me down the hall, his footsteps heavy but somehow quiet, controlled. Military, he'd said. Fourteen years, I remember from his profile. I'd read it three times, tension coiled under my skin, weighing pros and cons.
Pro: stable job lined up with Thompson Construction. Pro: permanent move, minimum three months. Pro: clean, quiet, allegedly no drama.
Con: man. Large man. Larger-than-expected man. Man, whose arms could throw me over his shoulder and—
Nope. Not finishing that thought.
"This is your room," I say, pushing the door open with my foot.
I'd spent all morning making it look nice, because apparently anxiety combined with poverty turns me into Martha Stewart.
The full-sized bed has fresh navy sheets and a soft gray comforter.
The curtains are open to let in the afternoon light.
A small dresser sits against one wall, and a simple desk and chair sit against the other.
I put a small plant on the windowsill before worrying he'd kill it and then deciding the plant would have to take one for the financial team.
On the bed, there's a woven basket I found on clearance. Inside: a printed copy of the house rules, a set of keys on a tiny cactus keychain, a mug that says "Roommates, Not Soulmates," some travel-size toiletries, and a bag of locally roasted coffee.
His eyes flick over the space, taking it in. They land on the basket, pause on the rule sheet peeking out, then move on. He doesn't smile, but his expression softens. Just a little.
"This okay?" I ask, hovering in the doorway with my arms crossed to keep from fidgeting. "The room. I know it's not huge, but it's—"
"It's good," he says. "More than good. Thanks."
The word thanks does something weird in my chest. He looks at me when he says it, steady and direct, and for the first time since I opened the door, I catch something like weariness in his eyes. Not weakness, just an edge of bone-deep tired that feels…familiar.
"Great," I say, forcing my smile to stay in the friendly category and not wander into flirtatiousness.
"Well, um, the bathroom is at the end of the hall.
We share it, obviously. I'm usually working late and sleep in, so morning shower times are all yours.
I…I wrote out a little schedule suggestion, but it's flexible. "
"A schedule." One brow lifts.
Mortification pricks my skin. "Not like a chore chart or anything.
Just—guidelines. I work evenings at The Lucky Tap, the new bar on Main.
So I'm leaving in about an hour, and I won't be back until late, and I didn't want you to worry or think I got kidnapped or something if the house is dark.
Not that you'd worry. I mean, we just met.
You have no reason to worry about me at all. "
Kill me.
I laugh, high and breathy, and want to slam my head into the doorframe.
His mouth does that almost-smile again. "You always talk this fast?"
"Yes." I blow out a breath. "No. Only when I'm nervous, which I'm not, obviously, because this is totally fine and normal. Renting a room to a stranger so I don't default on my mortgage because my ex–best friend robbed me blind. Completely fine. Totally normal."
Wow. Okay. Guess we're just…saying it out loud now.
His jaw tightens at the word robbed. Those gray eyes sharpen. "She stole from you?"
I wave a hand, wishing I could cram the words back into my mouth.
"It's not—well, yes. Technically. She was my roommate before, and my best friend since high school, and we had this joint savings account for a trip and all the house expenses, then one day she just…
emptied it and left town." My throat burns.
"Anyway. That's not your problem. You passed the background check, and you have a job; that's what matters. "
His fingers curl around the strap of his duffel. "She take a lot?"
"Enough to hurt." I swallow, forcing a bright note into my voice. "But it's fine. I have a plan. Step one: rent out the spare room. Step two: work my butt off. Step three: keep my house and my garden and resist the urge to turn bitter and adopt nineteen cats."
"Could be worse plans," he says.
There's something like respect in his gaze now, and it makes me feel…funny. Seen. Which is dangerous.
I clear my throat and back up into the hallway.
"Anyway, you'll find all the important information in that basket—Wi-Fi password, emergency contacts, trash day, stuff like that.
And the house rules. They're the same as on the listing, but more…
detailed. With examples." My cheeks heat again.
"If you have questions, we can go over them later. "
He looks at the basket. "You give all your roommates gift baskets?"
"I've only had one roommate before," I say. "And no, she got my friendship instead, and look how that turned out."
His gaze comes back to me. "I'll pay rent on time."
"I know," I say a little too quickly. The background check was spotless. His references from other guys in Evergreen Lakes—Levi Livingston and Kevin Dawes—were practically glowing. "Let me just show you the rest, and then I'll get out of your hair so you can settle in."
I turn before I can drown in his eyes again and lead the way back down the hall.