Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
DECLAN
The first sound I registered was ceramic clinking, followed by surprisingly vulgar curses coming from the usually sugary-sweet mouth of none other than my brand-new roommate.
With a glance at the clock, I rolled out of bed and shoved a hand through my hair. Light filtered in through the blinds, and I blinked against it as I dragged on a pair of sweats.
Our first morning together was going to be interesting if the past week was anything to go by.
Watching Penelope unravel in real time as she’d realized the only way she’d get out of this without a blemish on her record was to live together?
Fucking gold. And not because I liked seeing her flustered—though, yeah, I did—but because it chipped away at the edge of that perfect, polished shell she wore like armor.
She was always so tightly wound. Prim. Polite.
Controlled. But when she’d come stomping into the bar like some kind of avenging angel with hair the color of fire?
That had been something else entirely. She hadn’t been prim or polite or controlled.
She’d unleashed some of that tension she no doubt kept bottled up all on me.
Pissed had been an understatement, so I’d been expecting fireworks for move-in day, and she’d delivered.
I hadn’t been scheduled in the shop yesterday, and my brothers had all told me not to come into One Night Stan’s. Going by their texts, I assumed they wanted to get the murder over with sooner rather than later.
If the hungry look in Penelope’s eyes at the thought of strangling me had been any indication, I was beginning to think homicide at her hands was exactly where we were going to land.
She was so easy to rile up, though. And the way she’d glared, all while that hoodie-blanket monstrosity swallowed her whole?
Jesus. I should not have found that as sexy as I did.
Never mind her reaction after I’d walked out in a towel—that flushed face and the way she’d regarded me like she wanted to murder me and fuck me in equal measure.
Unfortunately for everyone all around, neither had panned out.
By the time I reached the kitchen, Penelope was still muttering under her breath. Hoodie-blanket monstrosity back in place, fuzzy socks on, hair twisted up and held in place by some sort of magic pen.
Spice jars covered the counter in front of her, each of the containers lined up with militant precision. She was so engrossed in her preparation for an herbal apocalypse, she didn’t notice me.
So I did what any self-respecting shit-stirrer of a roommate would do. I leaned against the doorway, crossed my arms, and watched.
After she had everything laid out how she wanted it, she began putting them back in their permanent home in the cabinet.
Adjusting each jar so it sat just right.
And if the container was too tall for the space she’d originally designated, she’d loose a string of curses so foul, even Mabel would’ve been impressed.
“Swear jar’s gonna be full by noon, rebel.”
With a scream, she spun around, her hand gripping a jar of paprika like she was ready to launch it at my head in self-defense.
I raised a brow. “You good, or do you want me to catch that?”
“Declan!” she snapped, dropping her arm and setting the jar back on the counter. “Why the hell are you sneaking up on me?”
“I wasn’t sneaking. You’re just really loud in your head.”
She scowled before turning back to the counter. “Normal people announce themselves.”
“Normal people don’t spend half an hour deciding how to organize spices.”
As I walked past her into the kitchen, she sniffed and pretended to ignore me entirely while continuing with whatever the hell her master plan was.
I pulled out the eggs and orange juice I’d picked up yesterday at Mahone’s, grabbed a pan, and started breakfast. Cracked a few eggs into a pan. Toasted some bread. Made a pot of coffee, noticing her tea station set up next to it—everything placed just so, her very own shrine to routine.
Made me want to mess it all up just to see what she’d do.
The entire time, Penelope remained completely immersed in her task. She didn’t glance up as I poured orange juice or when I grabbed some silverware or when I plated two dishes. The only thing that finally got her attention was when I slid a plate in front of her.
She snapped her head toward me. “What’s this?”
I raised a brow as I speared a bite of eggs with my fork. “Thought that was fairly obvious. Aren’t you supposed to be a librarian with a master’s degree?”
She pressed her lips together in a thin line, clearly biting back a string of colorful retorts. “You know what I mean. Why are you giving me this?”
I shrugged. “You didn’t eat last night.”
I didn’t say the rest out loud, which was that I knew she’d missed dinner because after the whole towel situation, she’d fled to her room like her ass was on fire and didn’t come out again.
She stared at me, narrowing her eyes before regarding the food with the same level of suspicion. “You’re not going to poison me, are you?”
“Not unless I get pushed to it.”
With a huff, she rolled her eyes, but she stopped her cabinet organizing and took a seat on the other side of the counter. “Well, thanks, I guess.”
“Was that painful for you?”
“Yeah, it was.” She bit into her toast before taking a sip of orange juice. “Don’t think this means I’m cleaning your dishes, though. Everyone’s responsible for their own. We’ll put it in the rules.”
“The rules?” I asked, brows raised.
Of course this woman would want rules established after less than twenty-four hours together.
“Since we’re both here, this is probably a good time to get this out of the way.”
That was when she pulled out a giant, laminated piece of paper from her bag. She unrolled it across the counter like she was about to map a crime scene, keeping it in place with a mug in each corner.
The left side of the sheet contained a list of chores with space next to each for one of our names. The right was blank except for the big, bold, perfectly written letters across the top—THE ROOMMATE RULES.
“Oh good,” I said flatly. “A roommate manifesto. That’s not ominous at all.”
She ignored me and reached for her planner before opening it to a page marked by a pink tab. “I wrote down several rules last night to get us started.”
“Uh-huh.” I watched as she diligently transferred each rule from her planner onto the board of doom that would now, apparently, rule my life.
“Rule one—no using each other’s towels, mugs, or chargers.”
“But I really love your fox mug.”
She ignored the dry tone of my voice and continued. “Rule two—no snooping in each other’s rooms.”
“What if I let you snoop in mine first? Can I get a peek then?”
“No,” she said, without hesitation. “Rule number three—respect the chore chart.”
“Will I be fined if I don’t?”
As if I hadn’t spoken, she continued. “Rule number four—no unapproved guests or loud sex.”
“For you or me?”
Color flooded her cheeks, and she refused to look up. “Both.”
I thought about the guys Lincoln had mentioned from One Night Stan’s and tightened my grip on my coffee mug. “Fine.”
She jerked her gaze up, surprise clear in her eyes. “Really?”
“Sure.” I lifted a single shoulder. “You said no loud sex. I’m sure I can find something to muffle the screams.”
Parting her lips on a soft exhale, she darted her gaze over my face, down to my chest, and lower still, the color of her cheeks flaming more with every second.
“Did I say something to intrigue the librarian?”
“What? No.” She shook her head, cleared her throat, and focused back on her list of rules. “Rule number five—everything that happens in the apartment stays in the apartment.”
My brows shot up. “What exactly are we expecting to happen here, rebel?”
“Nothing,” she said too quickly. “It’s just a precaution.”
“You sure? You look like you’re anticipating a scandal.”
“There most certainly will not be a scandal.”
“That’s too bad.”
She pretended to ignore my comment completely, but her fair skin—which was now almost as red as her hair—gave her away every time.
After passing me a marker, she pointed to a spot at the bottom of the Big Board of Rules. “Sign your name.”
“You want me to sign this,” I said flatly. “Like an actual contract.”
“Obviously.”
This woman and her fucking rules.
I ran a hand through my hair and stepped around the counter to join her on the other side. This close, I could smell whatever the hell she used in her hair—something fresh and citrusy that made me want to wrap it around my fist and tug her closer just to get a better scent.
Instead, I shoved that instinct down and signed my name. “Your turn.”
She grabbed the marker from me and quickly added her signature. “There. The rules are finalized.”
“Since they are, you just let me know if you change your mind on the whole scandal thing.” I scanned her from head to toe—all that fiery hair pulled back, those hot-as-hell glasses, her angelic face…
and then that body that was made for nothing but sin.
“Sullying your perfect librarian image is right up my alley.”