The Roommate Mistake (Copper Valley Pounders Rugby #2)

Chapter 1

1

Holt Webster, aka a professional rugby player ready to start the next phase of his life

An unfamiliar car is parked in the loading zone.

That’s the text message waiting for me when I pull into the staff lot behind the Copper Valley Aquarium.

I don’t work at the aquarium, but I do occasionally moonlight as private security for a high-end catering company that often does after-hours events here. And one of the staff I know has texted that they’re worried about the black Kia sedan blocking the oversize garage door behind the building.

Loading zone’s for the catering vans.

That car shouldn’t be there.

I text back that I’ll check it out, pocket my phone, then brace myself before opening my Jeep door and stepping out into the parking lot .

Not just hot this summer. It’s fucking hot. The kind of hot that makes you expect that the soles of your shoes will melt into the pavement if you don’t walk quickly enough, which you don’t want to do because the air is so thick, it’s like walking through a wall of swamp water.

I’m sweating by the time I get close to the loading dock, where two more things strike me.

One, the car’s running.

And two, there’s a person in the driver’s seat.

Bonus—I’m pretty sure it’s a rental.

This isn’t a go inside and find out whose car this is situation.

It’s a question how the hell someone in a rental car got a pass to get into the staff parking lot and why they’re sitting in the loading zone situation.

I’m three steps away from the driver’s side door when I realize there’s one more thing completely wrong about this situation.

The driver is hunched over and gnawing on—what the fuck is that?

Is that a cake that she’s eating with her whole face?

A massive sub sandwich?

No, it’s—are you serious?

It’s a rotisserie chicken.

Isn’t it?

I squint harder, and yep.

That’s exactly what it is.

The white woman parked in the loading zone is gnawing on a rotisserie chicken. The kind you get at a grocery store deli.

But she hasn’t picked a leg. Not a breast. Or a wing.

It’s the whole chicken .

She has the whole chicken in her hands, and she’s going to town on it. Large bites right out of the breast area. And?—

Is she even chewing?

Or is she swallowing every bite whole?

Wild.

She’s barely pausing. Just diving in for one bite after another as if she hasn’t eaten in a week.

Or more.

I mentally sigh.

Been doing security in my off-season for extra cash and to keep me occupied for a few years now, but this is a new one.

It’s going to be one of those nights.

But at least she’s alone.

I draw in a deep breath, almost choke on the humidity, and rap my knuckles against her window.

Wide blue eyes meet mine as she shrieks loudly enough for me to hear the muffled reverberations through the glass.

But it’s not the shriek that has me ducking.

It’s the fact that she’s throwing the entire chicken at me.

One moment, she’s cavewomaning the bird, the next, she’s winding up and launching it like she’s a weekend quarterback.

I’m halfway to the ground, out of range of the chicken, when I remember something important.

Her window’s up.

Her window’s up, and the chicken’s bouncing off it back into her lap, leaving a greasy smear all over the window.

And that’s why it takes me a second to realize the next thing.

She’s choking.

She’s choking on the forty-one bites of chicken that she’s hoovered into her mouth in the thirteen seconds since I spotted her.

Fuck me .

I straighten, grab the door handle, and yank it open. The scent of roasted chicken spills out of the car and joins the aroma of sweaty asphalt.

Chicken spills out of the car too.

“Swallow,” I order.

She lifts a finger, then manages a feeble cough.

Dammit, Webster . Way to go.

Good news is, if she’s coughing, she’s not choking.

For the moment.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

She nods, still coughing.

“Do you need help?”

Head shake.

She does not.

“What are you doing here?”

She looks over at me and hacks again. Wide, wary blue eyes connect with mine.

I tap the private security logo on my polo. “You can’t park here. Private property.”

She coughs once more, shakes her head, and then looks down.

Outside the car to where the whole goddamn chicken minus half a breast that she’s been gnawing on has flopped over onto its back, legs spread, wings looking a little worse for the adventure.

“I can’t eat that now, can I?” The statement is a whole mood. Melancholy and desperation with a touch of three-second rule .

And I feel a familiar punch to the gut .

Caden would’ve laughed his ass off about this.

If I could tell my brother that I found a woman going full predator on an entire rotisserie chicken in the loading zone at one of my shifts, he would’ve congratulated me on meeting my soulmate and asked when the wedding was.

I would’ve flipped him off.

He would’ve told me to bring popcorn the next time I wanted to talk about my future wife.

Fuck, I miss my brother.

He was funny as hell.

“Your digestive system, your choice, but you can’t eat it here,” I reply.

She eyes me.

I eye her right back.

There’s a ring of grease around her plump lips and a bit of chicken on her chin that wobbles as she mutters something to herself.

The ghost in my head is right.

There could be something here.

She’s fucking adorable.

And I’m leaving the country in five days and not coming back. Ever.

“Ma’am, this is a private parking lot?—”

“You’re security?” she interrupts.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“ID, please.”

The authority in her voice doesn’t match the way she’s using the edge of her T-shirt to wipe a streak of grease off of the steering wheel, and it momentarily catches me off guard as I peek beneath her T-shirt.

Blue .

She’s either an alien with a blue stomach, or she’s wearing an undershirt.

Alien with a blue stomach?

Christ on a cracker.

It truly will be one of those nights. I should’ve said no when the call came in.

And missed meeting the lioness? Caden’s voice says in my head.

I instruct myself to unclench my jaw. My work ID is attached to my hip, which she could clearly see if she’d look down. But she doesn’t, so I unclip it and show it to her.

She leans in, squinting at it while she angles her body just outside the car enough to reach for the chicken.

Like she’s being subtle. Like I won’t notice that she’s trying to grab the poultry on the pavement.

I sigh and bend to grab it for her but pause when she straightens.

“Oh. You’re Holt.” Her wide blue eyes light up as if me being Holt is the best news she’s had all day, and her smile?—

Fuck me.

That smile says I’m better than the chicken.

And given the way she was eating it up—literally—the thought has me temporarily disoriented.

Soul. Mate. Called it .

My brother’s been gone for almost nine months, and much as I miss him, his memory still manages to annoy me sometimes.

She starts to extend a greasy hand, looks down at it, and pulls it back into the car. “Hi. I’m Ziggy Barnes. The new sommelier? Brydie said I should find you to help me unload the wine. And here you are.”

My left eyelid twitches .

I started doing security one or two nights a week while Caden was sick to get out of the house in the off-season. Theoretically to make a little extra cash too, since rugby in the US doesn’t pay a lot. The Pounders’ owner hooked me up with a company he uses regularly. This is the kind of catering company that handles events for the bigger teams in the city. Political events. The most exclusive weddings for the richest of the rich here.

And their new sommelier is sitting outside her first event, gnawing on a whole chicken. Wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt and a ring of grease around her mouth. In a rental car.

Definitely a rental. The paperwork is sitting in the cupholder.

There’s a story here. Likely a fascinating story.

A fascinating story that’s none of my business. Work and pleasure don’t mix.

It’s a rule. A good one at that.

I clear my throat. “Didn’t know we were getting a new wine person.”

“All I know is that Michael is no longer with the company. I didn’t ask questions.”

I don’t know if I believe her, and I don’t know how much of my doubt is because she’s pretty and how much is because it’s been months since I’ve thought a woman was pretty so I don’t trust my own gut.

“What’s with the chicken?”

She grins again. “I was hungry, and it sounded good.”

“Normal people use forks and plates.”

“Why be normal when you can trap yourself in your car without napkins on the first day of a new job?”

“How’d you get into the parking lot?”

That bright, sunny smile finally drops away .

I feel like I’ve kicked a puppy.

Shit .

“Brydie gave me a pass. My uniform is in the back seat, and all of the wine for this evening is in the trunk. I was told you wouldn’t be here until five, which would’ve given me plenty of time to finish my dinner in peace instead of being judged for it. Would you like to call Brydie to confirm that I’m supposed to be here, or would you like to continue glaring at me like my very existence is giving you constipation?”

Did a woman with a fleck of chicken breast on her nose just attempt to give me a smackdown?

Yep.

She did.

And once again, I get that gut reaction that I can’t wait to tell my best friend this story—once it’s funny—and then the subsequent punch at remembering he’s not here anymore.

I miss that fucker.

Especially in the rugby off-season.

Solo training doesn’t work off the same level of frustration as full-team practices with scrums and rucks and tackles.

I pull my phone out with every intention of calling Brydie, the lead caterer, when a text lands from her.

Brydie: In case nobody told you, Michael was let go yesterday. We have a new somm coming in. Super fancy lady. Very pretty. Her name’s Ziggy Barnes and she should be here by five with all of tonight’s wine. Can you please help her bring it in? Did I mention she’s very pretty?

Brydie clearly hasn’t communicated Ziggy Barnes’s arrival to the rest of the staff, or I wouldn’t have that first text about this unfamiliar car.

I lift my phone, snap Ziggy’s picture as she’s once again leaning over, reaching for the chicken, and send it back to Brydie.

Me: This her?

The message gets read, but not answered immediately.

Not on text anyway.

The back door of the aquarium swings open, and Brydie herself leans out the door, squinting at both of us in the sunshine. She’s a white lady in her late fifties and her favorite pastime is showing everyone pictures of her grandbabies.

Ziggy leans out her window. “Hi, Brydie. I’m early.”

“Is that a grocery-store chicken?” Brydie says.

“I got hungry.”

“Honey, that’s been on the ground. Do you know what falls on the ground outside a loading dock at an aquarium? Leave it to the birds. We’ll feed you inside.”

Ziggy gestures to me with her thumb. “Is this the guy who’s supposed to help me carry in the wine?”

Brydie beams at me. “That’s him.”

“Why isn’t the wine already on the catering truck?” I ask.

“Michael,” Brydie replies.

I scrub a hand over my face.

This is not my circus.

Not really.

It’s an easy-ish job that pays as well as playing rugby in the States and gives me something to do outside of my house a few nights a week.

Until I leave for Europe in five days .

Going back to where rugby’s more common. Where selling out stadiums means a paycheck orders of magnitude bigger than what we get here. Where we can’t go out in public without getting recognized.

Unlike here, where I’ve quit correcting Brydie every time she tells someone I play lacrosse, because here, if it’s not football or hockey or baseball or basketball, it doesn’t count.

“Pop the trunk,” I tell Ziggy.

I don’t like her.

Liar , Caden’s voice whispers.

Fine.

I don’t want to like her.

She’s new. I don’t know where she came from or what her qualifications are. It’s not normal to gnaw on a whole chicken inside a car. And said gnawing doesn’t match the super fancy that I was told to look for.

Though she is pretty.

Gorgeous, actually. Round cheeks that have a glow. Those bright blue eyes. Soft pink lips. Brown hair just the right kind of messy to give a guy ideas about gripping it while?—

Fuck it.

Maybe she’s up for fun before she leaves.

Why not? I haven’t thought another woman was pretty in months, and who can be attractive while devouring a full bird the way she was?

Plus, while work and fun don’t mix, I’m quitting.

This is my last shift before I leave.

The attraction I’m feeling here is either it’s been too long catching up with me, or there’s something innately appealing about her.

Brydie strides down the three short stairs to join us and hands Ziggy the towel tucked into her apron like it’s normal for a new somm to show up with chicken grease all over herself.

“Ziggy ran all over the city today buying replacement wine for tonight,” Brydie tells me. “Saved the day. Oh, honey, you missed a spot. Here.”

She takes the towel that Ziggy’s using to smear chicken grease worse over the driver’s side window and rubs Ziggy’s nose instead.

Ziggy shoots a wary glance at me.

“The trunk?” I repeat.

“Don’t mind him,” Brydie says to her. “He doesn’t like the heat.”

“Who does?” Ziggy finally pushes out of the car as I head to the back of the vehicle. “Holy hell, who turned on the ovens in the parking lot?”

“Global warming,” Brydie says. “Was it not this hot in Europe?”

My head jerks back to look at Ziggy.

Europe? She was in Europe recently?

She grins, but it’s more guarded than it was before. “Just because I eat my rotisserie chicken like a rabid toddler doesn’t mean I haven’t seen other parts of the world, Mr. Security Man. Who’s ready to carry wine?”

She pops the trunk.

“Vacation?” I ask her.

“Work.”

“Chicken-tester?”

She smiles again. “Yes. I worked for a luxury cruise line in the Med making sure all of their chicken was properly edible. Five stars on this one, by the way. Hints of rosemary and thyme on the nose, a bold, full-bodied poultry grease mouthfeel, and a delightful I’m going to have indigestion finish. ”

I was out with my teammates right after the season ended for us one match short of the championship last month, and I watched one of the younger guys fall hard for a woman at the bar who kept smearing ketchup on her mouth every time she had a fry.

I didn’t get it.

Now, I think I do.

And because I haven’t been out in the hooking-up or flirting or dating game since my first attempt after Caden died ended like shit, I don’t actually know what to say back.

Or if I want to.

Don’t need another stalker leaving cheese in my mailbox with sticky notes attached insulting my character.

Not that she’ll have access to my mailbox.

I’ll be in Spain. Long way to get to my mailbox.

I grunt and push the trunk open, then grab a case of wine.

Ziggy steps beside me and reaches for another case but gets shooed by Brydie, who whispers something about her condition .

Condition ?

Like a blood sugar condition? Does she have scoliosis? Is there some underlying condition that the average human wouldn’t recognize that she’s dealing?—

Nope.

Stop it, Webster .

Got enough on my plate being captain of the team and keeping all of the young guys—and often the not-as-young guys—out of trouble.

My job of playing full-on caretaker ended when Caden died.

I don’t have to care about strangers and their situations.

Even when they’re pretty and funny and intriguing .

And even when I’m lying, and I still watch over my teammates like I’m their big brother. My neighbors like I’m their nephew. My coworkers like?—

You get the idea.

Leaving the country will be good for me in every way that counts.

“Go on, go in and get changed,” Brydie repeats to her.

Ziggy rubs her eye as she nods. “Okay. Thank you. I’ll be ready in ten minutes.”

She switches course and grabs a suit bag out of the back seat, but when she bends to retrieve her chicken, a large black bird swoops in and buzzes her.

She shrieks.

I drop the wine and lunge for her, steadying her before she topples over.

Honey.

Her hair smells like warm honey, and her body is soft as it presses back into mine, her ass curvy against my thigh.

I could absolutely see myself going home with this woman tonight.

Blow off steam.

Have fun.

Make a nice memory before I leave for Spain.

“So I’ll leave the chicken for the birds.” She’s not struggling to get out of my grasp, and her voice is high-pitched and unsteady.

Attraction?

Or fear of crows or ravens?

Shit. I don’t know what she’s feeling any more than I know what kind of bird that was.

“I’ll get it away from the door,” I say.

I don’t let go .

She doesn’t pull away.

“Shoo, shoo,” Brydie says. “You’ll get your food, but you have to wait three minutes. Didn’t your mother teach you any bird manners?”

The bird screams at her.

Okay. Time to let go.

Ziggy’s here all night.

I’m here all night.

I’ll get a chance to talk to her again without the danger of bird attacks.

Honey and vanilla. There’s definitely a subtle vanilla scent in her hair too. But you have to breathe deep to notice it.

She straightens.

I drop my grip on her. “In you go.”

“We’ve got the chicken,” Brydie says. “Oh, good, none of these bottles broke.”

Ziggy tucks a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. “Thank you,” she says to Brydie without looking at me.

“Of course, sweetheart. You go in and get ready. We’re right behind you.”

Ziggy beelines for the door, head down.

“She’s a really sweet girl,” Brydie says to me after I toss the chicken over the back fence and into a weedy area for the birds. “Such a sad situation that brought her home.”

I almost ask, but I don’t.

Not my business.

Not when sad situation says everything I need to know.

Ziggy Barnes comes with complications.

And I don’t want complications.

Even for just one night.