Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
PENELOPE
I’d walked into town hall earlier today expecting clarification. A calm, rational discussion, perhaps. Definitely a civilized resolution that would end with Declan no longer parking where he wasn’t allowed and me being able to finally think about something other than him.
What I hadn’t expected was whatever the hell that circus had been. Nor had I expected to walk out of there with my doom looming over me like a guillotine.
Thirty days. Thirty. Days.
Cohabitation.
With Declan Steele.
I hadn’t lived with anyone since college, and I’d only done so then because single dorm rooms weren’t available. I’d always thrived best on my own. After my mom died when I was thirteen, I’d spent too many years feeling like a long-term houseguest.
Living alone meant I didn’t have to measure my existence against anyone else’s tolerance.
And now, when I was already turning myself inside out because of pressure I couldn’t admit to anyone, I was just supposed to share a space—a bathroom, a kitchen…air—with a man who parked on sidewalks because he felt like it and winked after slashing a tire? Ridiculous.
The idea of something like this happening in Madison or Baltimore or one of the other half dozen cities I’d lived in was beyond laughable. There, courts were run by actual judges, not citizens with way too much time on their hands.
Here in Starlight Cove? Apparently, a horny grandma with a god complex and a participation badge could rule the town if she was persistent enough.
I normally adored Mabel—she’d welcomed me into town with open arms and had made me feel at home from day one. And honestly, I would’ve been impressed with her feat of procuring her position overseeing the Court of Mabel if it weren’t my sanity on the line.
But it was most definitely on the line.
First clue—the distinct path I’d worn across my living room rug in the few hours I’d been home.
As a rule, I didn’t pace. Pacing was what people did when they were panicked or disorganized or unraveling. I was none of those things. I was in control because I had a system. One with labeled bins and color-coded charts and a backup planner.
Or, at least, I had been in control.
“Oh god,” I whispered, rubbing my temples. “I’m spiraling.”
A slow flick of a golden tail was my only response. Darcy was perched on the window ledge, silently judging me. As usual.
“Don’t look at me like that. This is serious.”
He didn’t even blink. Just kept eyeing me like the fluffy little tyrant he was.
“How the hell am I supposed to live with Declan?” I hit the end of the rug and spun around, heading back toward Darcy.
“Where am I supposed to hang my bras and panties to dry? What if I walk out of the shower and he’s right there?
Will the towels even cover all this?” I gestured to my boobs, which were snuggled in a bra with cups the size of my head. “My bet is no.”
I collapsed on the couch next to my half-packed suitcase—because I hadn’t been able to bring myself to finish the job—and dropped my head back on the cushion. “God, what if he sleeps naked?”
Though I wasn’t trying to torture myself with the mental image, one popped into my mind anyway. Uninvited, obnoxiously vivid, and very, very…large.
I grabbed a throw pillow and held it tight to my face to smother a groan. “Who am I kidding? He definitely sleeps naked. Men like that don’t have pajama pants. Or shame.”
I lifted my head from the pillow to find Darcy casually licking a paw.
“It’s a valid concern! Stop pretending like it’s not a big deal. This is going to be an absolute disaster. There’s no way both of us are coming out of this alive.”
After tossing the pillow aside, I grabbed my laptop and opened my browser. In the search field, I typed, how to live with someone you despise without murdering them in the first week.
The results were…unhelpful. And now I was probably on a federal watch list. I shut the laptop with more force than necessary, set it on the side table, and began pacing. Again.
“What if I start talking in my sleep?”
Darcy yawned.
“What if he talks in his sleep?” I paused, eyes wide as I stared at my cat.
“Oh God, what if he has loud sex dreams? Or worse—what if he has actual loud sex in our apartment? I’ll have to wave while some talking lingerie ad struts out the next morning, looking like she just climbed Everest and came twice while doing it. ”
The thought of that turned my stomach. And then it caved in on itself entirely when my gaze landed on my bookshelf.
“What if he finds out my secret?” I glanced over the rows of books and scanned the titles, part pride, part crippling dread flooding me. “What if he tells the whole town? What if I lose my job because of it?”
No. Nope. Absolutely not.
Declan Steele wasn’t just a problem. He was a whole damn walking liability—reckless, smug, impossible. And now he was going to have the keys to my life for the next month?
The two of us living in the same space just wasn’t survivable. And I was going to make damn sure he knew it.
Before I could second-guess myself, I grabbed my purse, flung open the door, and marched out to find the man who could absolutely not become my new roommate.
Laughter and raucous voices hit me as soon as I pushed through the front door of One Night Stan’s. Trivia night meant the place was packed wall-to-wall, and my very loud, very conspicuous entrance—courtesy of the door bouncing off the wall—sent a whole lot of heads turning my direction.
Normally, that would’ve elicited at least a blush from me. But right now, I couldn’t focus on anything but finding the harbinger of my doom.
It didn’t take long—no doubt my anger mapping the way. The Steele brothers and their significant others held court in the middle of the bar, their table impossible to miss.
Atlas—built like a mountain with a scowl just as fierce—had dragged his girlfriend’s chair so close, Sutton’s dark hair brushed his jaw every time she laughed.
Xander’s normally stoic expression was softer now with Chloe wriggling in his lap as she stole one of his fries.
Lincoln lounged in his seat, charm rolling off him in waves, while his wife, Willa, leaned into his side and chatted with Atlas.
And right at the center of all that romance-novel-level perfection sat Declan—legs sprawled, beer bottle resting on one knee, eyes locked on me. As if he’d been waiting. Watching.
As if he’d known I was coming. Had expected me to.
A lightning bolt of annoyance shot through me as I marched toward him, determination in every step.
Once I reached his table, I stabbed a finger in his direction. “We are not doing this.”
Oh-so calmly, Declan set his beer bottle on the table and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over that ridiculously broad chest. “Actually, we are. Gotta do things by the book. Didn’t think I’d have to remind you of that.”
I huffed out a shocked breath, unable to believe the words that had just spilled from his lips. Now he wanted to do things by the book? Now he was all about following the rules?
Atlas sighed heavily and pinned him with a scowl. “What the hell did you do now?”
With his eyes still locked on me, Declan said, “Nothing criminal.”
Excuse me? The things he’d done might not have landed him in jail, but they were most certainly criminal in my book.
“Depends on who you ask,” I said. “Because I’d say ruining my life is criminal.”
Around him, his brothers raised their brows as they exchanged glances. Sutton, Chloe, and Willa were darting their gazes between Declan and me—a train wreck they couldn’t seem to look away from.
“If someone could fill us in, that’d be great,” Xander said.
“Oh, did your brother not tell you he got us hauled into the Court of Mabel like a pair of degenerates?”
“The what now?” Lincoln asked.
“New civic initiative,” Declan said without an ounce of emotion. Like this wasn’t affecting him in the least. “Mabel’s apparently deputized now.”
“Oh fuck,” Lincoln muttered. “Who the hell did that?”
“My bet’s on Luna,” Chloe said with a definitive nod. “That woman can talk her husband into anything.”
“Yeah, well, Mabel has a badge now. Thanks to Sheriff McKenzie deputizing the town menace, I’m stuck with five hundred hours of community service,” I said, glaring at Declan.
“Holy shit, five hundred?” Sutton asked.
Declan didn’t look away. He kept that unreadable expression locked on me, but I could’ve sworn the corner of his mouth twitched. “Or…”
I narrowed my gaze and hissed, “Don’t you dare.”
Completely ignoring my threat, he said, “Thirty days. Living together. By order of Mabel.”
“Oh shit,” Chloe breathed. “She is such a fucking menace.”
I inhaled the deepest breath I could and let it out slowly, hoping for a moment of calm.
Nope. Not an ounce of peace to be found as anger burrowed, hot and heavy, in my chest.
“This is not going to work.”
Declan shrugged. Shrugged. “It’s either that or five hundred hours and a blemish on your perfect record. You said it yourself—this was the lesser of two evils.”
I opened my mouth to argue, to tell him this was ridiculous, to explain exactly why thirty days of forced proximity with him was nothing short of psychological warfare. But I would only be wasting my breath.
So, I snapped my mouth shut, turned on my heel, and stormed out the way I’d come in—frustration in my chest and indignation burning down my spine.
The second I stepped outside, the evening September air swept over me, but it wasn’t enough to cool the fire under my skin.
He knew—that smug, infuriating man knew I wouldn’t take the decision back, even if I could.
And the worst thing was, he was right.
Because as much as I hated the idea of living with him for thirty long days, I would hate a blemish on my record even more.
I might as well be made of glass for how clearly he saw me. The carefully curated version anyway—the planner, the rule-follower. The kind of woman who kept receipts, left polite voice mails, and probably apologized to inanimate objects.
And okay, fine, there was no probably about it. I’d definitely apologized to more than one mannequin, a couple light posts, and even a bench or two.
But I was so much more than that.
I just wasn’t ready to reveal that to anyone else.
If Declan Steele ever dug beneath the surface—past the neat edges and controlled lines—he might stumble on to things I’d kept carefully compartmentalized for years. The mess I’d hidden under the veil of incognito browsers and deep in the “Tax Prep” folder on my desktop.
Things I wasn’t ready to explain. Or defend. Or let anyone touch. Not again.