Chapter 2
Ainsley
In my bedroom, I shut the door and lean against it, pressing both hands to my face. My heart is racing as if I had just sprinted a mile. My body is thrumming, wired and aching in ways that have nothing to do with scrubbing baseboards all morning.
"What the hell, Boothe," I whisper into my palms.
This is exactly what I was trying to avoid. This is why I put ABSOLUTELY NO FLIRTING in all caps on the listing. This is why I wanted some faceless, bland accountant-type with a receding hairline and an addiction to Sudoku puzzles.
Instead, I got a six-foot-something, tattooed, broad-shouldered former military construction worker with gray eyes and a jaw you could cut diamonds on.
Great job, universe. Really nailed it.
I drop my hands and cross to my dresser, yanking out a clean bra and the black tank top I wear under my work flannel. I change, trying not to think about the fact that my new roommate is just on the other side of the wall, unpacking his things, maybe reading my ridiculously detailed rule sheet.
Maybe seeing the bolded NO FLIRTING at the top and laughing his ass off.
I tug on my skinny jeans, then sit on the edge of the bed to pull on my boots. My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Simon: You alive? Steph just told me that your new roommate was moving in today. Do I need to screen for murder vibes when you show up?
I snort, thumbs flying as I answer my boss.
He lives most of his time in Las Vegas with his wife Autumn, a friend of mine from high school.
But he has a slew of bars in Vegas, and since Autumn's family lives here, they opened a bar here as well.
Thankfully for me because they hired me right away, and he's been looking after all of us employees like a father rooster, especially after Steph's ex hurt her.
Me: Background check clear. No visible axes. We're calling it a win.
Simon: Firmly remind him that if he hurts you, I know people who know people.
Me: You ARE the people.
Simon: Exactly.
A knock sounds on my bedroom door, and my heart jumps into my throat.
"Ainsley?" Troy's voice rumbles through the wood. "Got a sec?"
I inhale sharply, then type quickly.
Me: Gotta go. If I'm dead, my garden inherits the house.
Simon: Valid.
I shove the phone into my back pocket and stand, smoothing my tank top. "Yeah, one second." I open the door.
He's standing there in the hallway, taller than the frame, one hand braced on the doorjamb like he's being careful not to crowd me. He's taken off his boots, standing in socks that make him look…soft somehow, despite the rest of him being anything but.
His gaze flicks down my body—quick, almost involuntary—then snaps back up. Heat licks over my skin in the wake of that one fast look.
Professional, I remind myself. You are a professional. You have a laminated rule sheet like a nerdy landlord.
"Everything okay?" I ask.
"Yeah." He lifts his other hand, revealing an envelope. "First month's rent and security deposit. Figured I'd give it to you now before I forget."
The envelope is thick. He passes it to me, his fingers brushing mine. A jolt of awareness snaps up my arm like static electricity. His eyes darken for a fraction of a second, and I know he felt it too.
"Thanks," I say, hoping my voice betrays nothing. It still sounds a little breathy. "I, uh, appreciate it."
He nods. "Also…just wanted to say I read the rules."
"Oh." My stomach swoops. "Already?"
"Skimmed," he says. "You weren't kidding about detailed."
Mortification and pride battle it out in my chest. "I like expectations to be clear."
"Good." His gaze holds mine. "I'm good at following orders."
The words land somewhere between my legs and explode.
He doesn't say it suggestively, not really. There's no waggle of his brows, no smirk. Just a simple statement of fact in that low, rough voice.
But my body doesn't care about nuance. It hears I'm good at following orders and instantly supplies a mental image of him on his knees at the foot of my bed, waiting for me to tell him what to do.
My fingers tighten around the envelope. "Perfect," I manage. "That's…that's great."
His mouth does that half-curve again, like he knows where my mind went and is being merciful by not calling me out. "You heading to work soon?"
"Yeah." I glance at the clock on my nightstand over his shoulder. "Leaving in about ten minutes."
"I'll get out of your way," he says. "Didn't mean to hold you up."
"You're not," I blurt out. "I mean, you are, but in a not-bad way. That sounded worse. Just—thanks for bringing the rent by."
He inclines his head once, then steps back. "See you later, Ainsley."
The way he says my name—steady, weighted—should not make my toes curl. But here we are.
"See you," I echo.
When he disappears back down the hall, I close my door and flop face-first onto my bed, groaning into the comforter.
"This is fine," I tell my mattress. "This is totally fine. This is doable. I can live with a ridiculously hot, broody, ex-military construction worker and not jump his bones. I have self-control."
My body laughs at me.
Ten minutes later, I'm in the tiny bathroom, swiping mascara onto my lashes and adding a quick line of eyeliner that I swear is just for tips and not for my roommate, thank you very much. I grab my flannel, tie it around my waist, and snag my keys from the hook by the front door.
Troy is in the living room when I emerge, sitting on the couch with his elbows on his knees, scrolling on his phone. His boots are back on. His duffel is gone—stowed away in his room, presumably—and his posture is less rigid than before, like the house has seeped into him, softening the edges.
He looks up as I approach. Those gray eyes skim my outfit—black tank, worn jeans, boots, flannel—then meet mine. There's a flicker there I can't read. Appreciation? Curiosity? Hunger?
Stop. Stop it.
"I'm heading out," I say, jangling my keys unnecessarily. "If you need anything, you can text me. My number's on the rule sheet. Emergencies only, obviously, unless it's like…you locked yourself out or the toilet is overflowing."
"I'll manage," he says. "You walk or drive?"
"Drive." I nod toward the side window. "Old Civic in the driveway."
He stands, and the room feels smaller again. "What time do you get off?"
"Bar closes at midnight, but I'm there until one, sometimes two, depending on how annoying drunk people are and how sticky the floors get." I shrug. "Don't wait up. That's a joke. Please don't wait up. That would be weird."
One corner of his mouth kicks up. "Got it. No weird waiting."
I hover by the door, reluctant to leave this strange new bubble where it's just the two of us and my anxiety hasn't had time to grow roots. Then my practical brain reminds me that money doesn't earn itself and I still have a mortgage.
"Okay. Well. Welcome home, I guess," I mumble. The words slip out before I can catch them.
His expression shifts, something like surprise flashing there before it smooths. "Thanks," he says. The word sounds rougher this time. "For letting me crash here."
"Not crashing," I say. "You're paying. This is a very official, professional arrangement."
No flirting, I remind myself. No pining. No imagining what he looks like under that shirt.
"If you say so," he murmurs.
My stomach flips. I back out onto the porch before my mouth can betray me again. The late afternoon air is warm on my bare arms. I pull the door shut, lock it, then glance through the small window.
He's still standing there, watching me.
Our eyes meet through the glass. He lifts a hand in a small wave. I wave back, then turn and jog down the steps to my car.
As I slide into the driver's seat, I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror. My cheeks are pink, my eyes bright. I look…alive. Frazzled, turned inside out, but alive.
"Okay, Boothe," I say to myself as I start the engine. "New plan."
Step one: survive the next month without drooling on my roommate.
Step two: pay the mortgage.
Step three: keep my panties intact.
As I pull away from the curb, I glance once in the side mirror.
Troy is still at the window, one hand braced on the frame, watching my car disappear down the street.
If the rent-a-room site had required profile pictures, I think, my heart thudding against my ribs, there is no way in hell I'd have approved his application.
My panties don't stand a chance. Shit. I'm supposed to be saving money, not buying underwear in bulk.