3. Conor
Conor
Dark chocolate truffle gelato.
That’s what Aiden’s little sister’s eyes look like. Huge pools of melted gelato in my all-time favorite flavor. Beckoning me to dive right in.
Aiden called me ten minutes ago to warn me of his sister’s surprise arrival. I was out for a run, and I wasn’t particularly bothered at the thought of a new roommate.
Until I saw her.
Wild-eyed, panicked and brandishing a houseplant, within a split second of laying eyes on her, Jess became the most interesting woman I’ve met in years. Most women bat their eyelashes; Jess looked like she would have swung a baseball bat at my head, if she’d had one.
Aiden talks about Jess a lot. But, when he told me that Jess lives in New York and dates a Wall St. whiz kid, I’d pictured…
oh, I don’t know, a bland, paper thin model with a personality to match?
Or—if she loves shoes anywhere near as much as her brother does—perhaps a pampered Paris Hilton type with a chihuahua and a major attitude problem?
What I had NOT prepared myself for was a fresh-faced, girl-next-door type. A girl-next-door who’s not actually a girl at all, but 100% all curvy, beautiful woman. With a death stare and an arm Tom Brady would be impressed with.
I can’t drag my eyes away.
So, I just stand here—still shirtless and sweaty from my run—and stare at her. Like a total creep.
I’m that guy.
No, I’m not proud of it. And yes, I’m painfully aware that this is not a good look. Especially because I just terrified her into thinking I’m Freddie Kruger, here to slash her to pieces.
I’m usually pretty good with women. I’m charming and funny, or so people tell me. But this is not exactly the time to drop in a quick, Joey-esque “How you doin’?” is it?
From her sprawled position on the floor, Jess blinks slowly. And the momentary severing of our eye contact gives me a split second to think.
This is Aiden’s little sister.
Who’s going to be living here with us.
And speaking of living, let’s not forget that Aiden would kill me if he knew I thought his sister was… well, hot.
“Band-aids,” I say, like I’ve just discovered the solution to global warming. I take a step backwards. “I’ll get you a Band-aid.”
And then, like the hero I am, I flee. Leaving her in a crumpled, soily heap on the floor.
Proper knight in shining armor stuff. One for the books.
In my room, I run a towel over my torso. I saw her looking at my bare chest, those big eyes like saucers—why had I not thought to put a shirt on and make myself somewhat presentable before introducing myself?
My phone rings, and I slide it to my ear as I open my closet. I want to get back to Jess with a Band-aid ASAP, but when work calls, I always answer. I’ll make it quick.
“Hello?”
“Conor, babe, great news,” a smooth voice purrs. It’s Karla, my realtor.
“What’s up?” I grab a shirt, then put the call on speakerphone so I can change. I’m only half listening, anyway. Karla is a born salesperson, and she’s using her realtor voice… so I take the term “great news” with a pinch of salt.
“You got the house in Edgewood.”
“Oh.” I’m suddenly paying attention. “That is... news.”
I wasn’t expecting to get this one. And I don’t know how I feel that I did. Since I started my house flipping business a few years ago—Brady Homes, yup, I know I get zero creativity points with that one—I’ve been careful not to take too many risks.
And having three—four, if you include the one I just bought for myself—houses on the go? Feels risky to me.
I’m already so busy as it stands. My house flipping business has grown alarmingly fast, and Brady Homes has become a sought-after name in the Atlanta market.
The money has been a happy side effect of being successful.
And my business, along with my bank account, will keep on growing if I take on multiple projects at once.
That is, if this pace doesn’t kill me first.
“Like I said, great news,” Karla amends my statement.
Everything about Karla, from her pressed two-piece suits to her bottle red hair, screams SHOW ME THE MONEY.
She’s a nice lady, but I know that, deep down, what she cares about more than anything is success.
And that, to her, success means making as much money as possible.
She’ll stop at nothing to get her commissions, and she gets a lot of them from working with me.
She’s even got some bigwigs lined up who might be interested in investing in Brady Homes, so I can expand faster.
Unlike Karla, I tend to focus less on the money side of things, and more on giving each renovation the time and attention it deserves.
The way I see it, every house has a story, a unique history.
I love modernizing houses and making them work for today’s buyers, while still retaining the build’s original charm and heritage.
“Shall we check it out later?” Karla’s voice is low and flirty. “We can go for a drink after.”
I wince. Karla does this a lot. And I always try to let her down gently, because while I never want to lead her on or give her the wrong idea, I also don’t want to hurt her feelings.
It’s a tricky balance, like walking a tightrope.
But I do know the last thing I want to do tonight is go for a drink with Karla.
What I want to do is spend some time getting to know Jess.
Who’s currently lying on the floor. Bleeding. Where I left her.
Conor, you idiot.
“Band-aids!” I exclaim.
“Excuse me?”
“Karla, I gotta go,” I say. “I’m sorry, I can’t do tonight. Maybe we can check out the house tomorrow?”
“Hot date?” Karla laughs, but I hear a sharpness in her voice.
I laugh awkwardly. “No. No date. But I really do have to go—talk later, okay?”
Karla finally hangs up and I spring into action. A quick breath mint and swipe of deodorant later—nothing like locking the stable door after the horse has bolted—I head back to the hallway. I have my first aid kit in hand, and I’m ready to be of service.
But, Jess is gone. A trail of blood droplets and soil tell me she’s in Aiden’s bedroom.
She probably scarpered the second I left. I don’t blame her for wanting to get away from her brother’s weird friend.
Or, maybe she still doesn’t believe that I'm not a serial killer.
With a sigh, I retrieve the vacuum cleaner.
* * *
Cleaning always relaxes me.
Call me Type A, OCD—whatever. I’m a clean freak and proud of it.
And, once I’ve vacuumed the floor, scrubbed the walls, and deposited what’s left of Jess’s plant into a plastic mixing bowl in the kitchen, I decide to take a shower.
A cold shower.
And not just because it is hotter than the fiery infernos of the underworld outside.
Since ending a short-lived relationship a few years back, I’ve more or less been married to my career. Brady Homes has been my life, and I’ve been striving for success for two reasons— One, to make enough money to support my mom, and two, to prove to myself that I can.
I always had that kind of drive to succeed. And, as I never had any interest in meeting someone and settling down, I was content with working 70 hour weeks and dating around casually. At least, I was content for a while.
Lately, I’ve been feeling different. Like I might want something more.
It’s probably just because I bought myself a house.
A house that I’ll be moving into when the renovations are complete…
alone. The space is way too big for one person, and for some reason, it’s got me thinking about finding someone.
Over the past few years, I’ve been on a lot of first dates.
But not so many second dates. Practically no third dates.
Work has taken precedence for me, and I never went on a date with anybody who made me feel like I wanted otherwise.
But Jess immediately piqued my curiosity in a way most women don’t.
Which is a bummer. As she is obviously off-limits. And thinks I have a staring problem.
Despite my better instincts, I replay every little fact I’ve heard about Jess from Aiden. I know that she’s three years younger than us. That she’s lived in New York for the past four years. That she hasn’t been home to visit in two.
And I know that Aiden hates her boyfriend. With all the burning passion that only an older brother can summon when it comes to his baby sister.
I decide I hate Jess’s boyfriend, too. Although my reasons for hating him are definitely a little bit different than Aiden’s.
Which is exactly why I can’t be thinking the way I am right now.
I turn off the shower and stand on the bathroom rug, peering into the mirror above the vanity.
“What are you going to do about this?” I ask my reflection.
I should stay away from her. But staying away from your roommate is like trying to cut a steak with a butter knife—tough and unsatisfying. Plus, I need to apologize, anyway. You know, for leaving her on the floor, bleeding and covered in soil.
It doesn’t take me long to decide that the best way to do this is with pasta.
It’s the hospitable thing to do. I mean, it is dinner time. And she needs to eat.
So, I might as well make my new guest dinner. It can’t hurt to get to know her a little. Welcome her home to Atlanta.
I’m just being friendly. Like anyone would.
Pleased with my decision, I make a simple, five-step plan:
One: I’m going to make pasta.
Two: I’m going to knock on Jess’s door and offer her pasta.
Three: We are going to eat pasta together.
Four: We will have a normal, mundane, get-to-know-each-other conversation.
And finally, by the time dinner is over, I will never think about Jessica Shaw ever again as anything other than Aiden’s little sister and a temporary roommate.
A situation that will resolve itself in no time.
Simple, right?