4. Jess
Jess
Breathe, Jess. Breathe.
I repeat the mantra to myself at least a dozen times.
After hottie god—sorry, Conor Brady —disappeared to get me a Band-aid, I did what any person in my situation would’ve done: Legged it.
No time to cry over Fernie’s death. I swiped my suitcase from its place by the front door and ran.
I then locked myself in Aiden’s bedroom. Which, I can’t help but notice, has also been beautifully renovated with a gorgeous white and navy color palette. Deep mahogany wood accents give the room just the right touch of masculinity.
Seriously, whoever did these renovations was a certified genius.
I spend a few minutes pressed against Aiden’s door, listening. I can hear Conor’s voice carrying from the bedroom down the hall. He’s on the phone. To a woman, by the sounds of it. Kayla or Marla, or something. She’s on speakerphone, and I catch the words “hot date.”
She’s probably his girlfriend. Of course a guy like that has a girlfriend to go on hot dates with.
I dial my brother and huff out a few breaths while I wait for him to pick up.
“Hello?” Aiden’s greeting is tinged with amusement.
“Since when do you have a roommate ?” I hiss by way of a reply.
Aiden chuckles, clearly getting a kick out of this. “You met Conor?”
“Uh, yeah, I met Conor!” My whisper-yell is a whole lot more yell than whisper. “Why didn’t you warn me? I thought he was a serial killer. I... I threw a plant at him!”
Aiden laughs. Long and hard. I hold the phone away from my ear, bristling with annoyance.
Brothers.
The little cut on my palm is bleeding again, and I dab it with a tissue.
Poor Fernie. Her little pot exploded into a million pieces after I threw it at Conor.
And, instead of murdering me, he’d actually wrapped his hand around mine to check the injury.
My cheeks flare at the memory of his touch, but I shake myself off.
When I’m done on this call, I have some serious cleaning up to do.
And apologizing.
When Aiden finally finishes cracking up over my apparently hilarious near-brush with death, he proceeds to annoy me further by pointing out the obvious. “You hung up on me. I didn’t have a chance to warn you.”
I mean, he’s right.
But still.
“And why, exactly, do you suddenly have a roommate?” I demand. “One that I have never heard of before?”
I wait while Aiden shifts the phone to his other ear. “We met about a year ago, when Conor did the renos on my house. He does that for a living—flips houses. We hit it off right away, went out for drinks and...”
I stop listening. Why? Because I am no longer capable of listening. Or thinking clearly. Or doing anything at all, really.
My brain short-circuited after hearing the words “Conor” and “flips houses” so close together. My body heats as my imagination runs wild with mental images of Conor all sweaty and shirtless, wearing work boots and a hard hat and doing manly things that manly contractors do.
Easy, Jess.
“Conor did this to your house?” I squeak, fanning myself with my free hand. Is it very, very hot in here? I need to sit down.
Not wanting to mess up the clean bedsheets with my soil-covered self, I plop down on the floor.
“Yeah,” Aiden replies. “Is he okay, by the way?”
“Hmmm?” I say dreamily, my brain far, far away in Conorland. Population: 2.
“You said you threw a plant at him?” Aiden cracks up again.
“Not funny,” I snap, jolting back to the harsh reality that Conor would never want me to come live with him in Conorland because he thinks I’m insane. “Most people don’t take kindly to being assaulted.”
“Good,” Aiden says, his tone suddenly serious. Too serious. He shifts his phone again, and sighs. “Look, if I’d known you were coming I never would have gone to LA.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. I mean it, too. “I didn’t intend to barge in like this. I had no idea anyone else lived here.”
“It’s fine, Jess. You know you’re always welcome at my place, and to be honest, I’m glad you’ve got some space from Johnny.”
“I knew you’d be.” As much as I hate having to talk about Johnny—especially while it’s all so fresh—I can’t help but allow myself a smile. Aiden might be annoying, but he always has my back. As far as big brothers go, he’s pretty great.
“It’s just...”
“What, Aiden?”
“Conor.” He pauses, and takes a huge gulp of a drink. “I should tell you something. He’s a great guy. The best. But he’s a bit of a—” Aiden stops again, grappling for a word. I hold my breath. “Ladies’ man.”
I exhale in an unladylike snort. “And you’re not?”
“Uh, well. Um...” Aiden flounders. I smirk, and he sighs like he can see my smirk through the phone. “That’s not the point. You’re my little sister. He’s a single guy. You’re both at my house, and I’m across the country.”
I try to ignore the idiotic joy that jumps in my stomach at the news that Conor is single. Take that, Marla!
“What are you trying to say, Aiden?”
Silence. I hear footsteps as he swaps over his phone to his other ear. I imagine him pacing around his hotel room. “I’m just saying, Conor goes on a lot of dates. Maybe don’t add to that number while I’m away, okay?
“What is this, the 1850s?”
A sigh. “No, this is just your big brother looking out for you. You know that, right?”
This probably isn’t a good time to tell Aiden that trying to find a man like Conor unattractive would be about as easy as putting toothpaste back in the tube. My only hope is that he has a terrible personality.
Lucky for Aiden, the truth and my fantasies are at polar opposite ends of the universe, anyway. Conor is a hottie god, and I’m just your run-of-the-mill mortal. I’ll bet Conor has women hanging all over him. Women who look like Victoria’s Secret models. Which I do not.
Plus, even if there was a smidgeon of a chance that a guy like that would look twice at a girl like me, there’s the teeny tiny issue that I accused him of trying to kill me.
And I attempted to assault him with a fern.
So, instead of dreaming about getting cozy with him, I’ll have to avoid Conor just to survive my mortification.
Which, you know, should be really easy given that we’re living together.
“Thanks, Aiden,” I say. “I know you’re always looking out for me. But, you have nothing to worry about. I made the worst first impression on the planet.”
“I’ll be back in a few weeks. I’ll see if I can work longer days to get the project wrapped up faster.”
“No need, Aiden. I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”
“Can you?” he teases, and I’m glad to hear the lightness return to his voice.
I laugh, but my heart speeds up a little. I know he’s teasing, but to be honest, it’s a valid question at this point in my life. “We’ll see, I guess.”
Aiden sighs again. “Conor will be nothing but a gentleman, I know that. He really is a good guy. And you’re right, you’re an adult who can make your own decisions. I guess I just worry sometimes.”
“Aiden?” I clamber to my feet, and walk to the ensuite bathroom. I take out a towel, eager to get in the shower.
“Yeah, Jess?”
“Thank you,” I say sincerely.
“For what?”
I reach into the fancy steam shower and turn it on. “For caring enough to worry about me.”
“Anytime, little sis. Is there water running?”
“Yeah, I’m about to shower... Oh, that reminds me,” I say, sweet and casual as can be. “Can I stay in your room while you’re gone?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Would you be really mad if I told you it was too late?”
“HEY, GET OUT OF MY BATHROOM!”
* * *
After a very long shower—complete with a double shampoo and condition, and approximately half a bottle of shower gel—I finally feel somewhat clean.
Two days’ worth of dirt, grime and sweat takes time to wash off, right?
Or, maybe I’m just making excuses to stay in the shower so I can put off having to face Conor again.
What am I going to say—sorry I thought you were going to make a human pincushion out of me? So much so, that I tried to smash you over the head with a ceramic pot? Leaving a mess that I still haven’t cleaned up?
By the time I hung up with Aiden, I’d completely forgotten that I fled the scene of the incident without tidying up. Meaning that Conor has probably added “extremely selfish and unthoughtful” to his mental list of his new roommate’s qualities. Right under “certifiably insane.”
I step out of the shower and wrap myself in a big, fluffy towel. The room is full of steam and I breathe it in, hold the heat in my lungs for a few seconds.
I need to look on the bright side. And the one bright spot in the universe of crap that is my life right now is that it can’t possibly get any worse.
I’ve hit rock bottom, and the only way to go is up.
So, I will get dressed, put on my big girl panties, go out there and talk to him.
Apologize. Behave like a regular human being who can live with a hot man in the next bedroom and not collapse in a heap on the floor.
A rap on the door jolts me from my thoughts.
“Jess?” Conor calls.
Ohhhhhh, Lord have mercy. That voice could make me melt into a human puddle.
I glance down at my towel-clad self. “Uhh, just a second.”
I dash to my suitcase across the room and change into the first thing my hand lands—a pair of pink pajama shorts. Then, in a minor panic, I dig through Aiden’s drawers for a t-shirt. No time to find a bra. I’ll have to opt for the old, oh-so-casually-cross-your-arms-over-your-chest trick.
Breathless from the scramble, I fling open the bedroom door. And promptly freeze.
Somehow, Conor looks even better the second time around.
He’s freshly showered, and his damp hair hangs across his forehead.
He’s wearing different athletic shorts—blue, this time—and a white t-shirt that hugs his body in such a way that it forces me to remember what that exact body looks like sans shirt.
A blush blooms beneath my skin, and I cross my arms over my chest in the most awkward, least casual way imaginable. I lean dizzily against the doorframe.
“You’re wet,” I say, and regret my words instantly.
Apparently, my brain has disconnected from my mouth.
He laughs. “Right back atcha.”
My hand automatically rises to touch my sodden, drowned-rat hair. Then, way too late, I remember the boobage situation, and snap my hand back down to cover my chest—resulting in an action that looks like I’m giving him some kind of bizarre, half-salute.
Frick.
“Oh, ah, yeah. It was from the, uh… shower,” I say wittily.
Double frick.
A slow, sexy smile spreads across Conor’s face, and my blush turns into a full-body, third degree burn.
“Are you hungry, Jess?” he asks. When I don’t reply, he adds, “I’m making pasta.”
He can cook, too?
COME ON.
Conor looks at me, clearly waiting for an answer, and by some miracle, I manage to plug my brain back in long enough to say, “I like pasta.”
“Perfect.” Conor’s green eyes travel over me in the most disconcerting of ways. “In that case, dinner’s ready.”
Not trusting what might come out of my mouth if I try to speak again, I simply nod.
He pauses for a moment. Our eyes connect.
Is he… waiting for me?
Double frick with hobknockers on.
“I, um, uh….” Helpless as a fly in a Venus flytrap, I flap my hands and gesture over my chest area.
“OH!” Those gorgeous emerald eyes widen in understanding. “I’m so sorry, I’ll… see you in the kitchen when you’re dressed. Uh, ready. I mean ready. No rush.”
And with that, he high-tails it down the hallway like a bat out of hell.
Mere minutes ago, I actually believed that this couldn’t get any worse. How had I been so naive?
I close the bedroom door, and begin my quest to find a clean bra. After a few moments of rustling in my suitcase, I locate one poking out of a sneaker.
Once my assets are safely enclosed in a nice, sensible bra, I dress in a blue, floral sundress with a positively Edwardian neckline. In Aiden’s bathroom mirror, I peer at myself from all angles to ensure no cleavage will be making a guest appearance over dinner.
To be extra safe, I add a baby blue sweatshirt. Despite the blazing hot weather.
Apparently, I’m a sucker for punishment.
I pull my wet hair into a side braid, put on a slick of mascara and lipgloss (for confidence), and an extra layer of deodorant (for necessity). Then, I step outside the safety of Aiden’s bedroom.
I’m shocked to discover that the hallway is pristine.
All traces of blood and dirt are long gone, like they never even existed in the first place.
Did Conor do this? My previous experience living with men (which is, albeit, limited to growing up with Aiden and visiting Johnny’s apartment) didn’t give me high hopes for having a male roommate.
I’m talking old mac and cheese stuck to the inside of the sink, socks EVERYWHERE, and walls covered with scuff marks whose origin I didn’t care to hear about.
But if Conor did this—well, he’s way neater than I am.
The guy seems to be full of surprises...
And they just keep coming. The smooth sounds of chill jazz and the soft clanging of plates carry from the kitchen. The rich scents of garlic and basil make my mouth water in anticipation. I follow my nose and pad barefoot down the hall.
Conor is at the stove, stirring a pot of something that smells positively heavenly.
“Hey,” I say, feeling slightly awkward and more than a little out of place. “Thanks for cleaning up. You really didn’t have to do that.”
He glances over his shoulder to shoot me a smile that could dazzle the brightest of stars. “I wanted to.”
And then, I see what’s left of Fernie. On the counter. In a mixing bowl.
Conor follows my gaze. “I tried my best to rescue your plant.”
Be still, my beating heart.