CHAPTER THIRTEEN
EMERSON
I blame the wine.
It’s the thought that keeps circling my mind as the mover places another box in my new room, piling it on top of the others.
What am I doing here?
“That’s the last of it,” a man with sweat stains on his T-shirt and a clipboard in his hands says.
He extends it toward me, and I take it, signing the dotted line to confirm that I’ve received my belongings.
When the door clicks shut behind him, the entire place is blanketed in silence. Sam isn’t here. He wasn’t here when I arrived this morning either, even though this is his apartment. A doorman let me in, like he had been instructed to do so. I’m not sure what I expected, but it wasn’t an empty homecoming.
Suki had to work, leaving me on my own today, but she helped me pack my things over the weekend. Mads is busy too. When I first walked into the building earlier to see my new temporary home, I realized instantly that I’m out of my league, and I wondered again if this was a mistake. I’m completely out of my comfort zone. The foyer and doorman dressed in formal attire were my first clues that the place is not in my price range. Even growing up in an upper-middle-class family, I’ve never lived in a home this nice, not while bunking in Suki’s townhouse or while living with my parents. We had money, but not this kind of wealth.
I look around my bedroom at the mess of things that need to be unpacked, but leave the space instead of tackling it. I start exploring the apartment, taking advantage of the solitude. The front door leads into a large, open-concept kitchen and living room. There are high-end appliances everywhere I look, including a fancy cappuccino machine that appears too complicated to work even though I was a barista for years. A long island separates the kitchen from the living room. There’s a huge television along one interior wall and floor-to-ceiling windows along the outer ones. The city is framed in one set of windows, and the lake can be seen through the others. Overstuffed couches and chairs adorn the space, sized for big bodies like Sam’s six-foot-something frame, but fashionable all the same. The walls are mostly bare, making the apartment appear stark and cold. Lifeless. I can picture beautiful paintings hanging along them to enhance the space, and I decide that Sam needs more color in his life.
My bedroom and three guest rooms are to the right of the kitchen, but I haven’t been down the hall to the left. I take it now, feeling like I’m doing something secretive and wrong. I guess I am snooping. But in my defense, there’s no one here to tell me I shouldn’t, so I consider every inch of this space fair game.
My steps are light along the wide-plank hardwood floors. A closed door doesn’t stop me when I reach it at the end of the corridor. I open it. It’s obviously a master bedroom. A huge master bedroom, larger than my entire first apartment back at college. My eyes are drawn to the windows facing Lake Michigan, just like the back wall of the living room. The water is calm today, and the sun is shimmering off the smooth surface like a million tiny golden diamonds.
There’s some furniture spread around the space—a chest of drawers along one wall, an armoire along another, all in a rich, dark wood. A couple of chairs. It has a masculine feel but is devoid of personal items or pictures again, except for a few framed photographs sitting on top of the chest of drawers.
I step closer and lift a frame, noticing that Sam is a mixture of both the woman and man who are standing with their arms around each other, smiling at the lens. I assume these are his parents. I wonder what kind of relationship he has with them. If his dad pushed him into hockey and drowned him in expectations or if he was Sam’s biggest fan. I wonder if they’re estranged, like I am with my parents. There’s another picture of the woman, but she’s wearing a head wrap, hiding her blonde locks. She looks thinner than she did in the first photo. Her smile is just as bright though. I set it down and glance around again.
A massive bed lies in the middle of the room, like the king’s throne with a bench placed at the end. The California-king mattress is shrouded in navy-blue sheets and a fluffy duvet comforter that’s bunched up and unmade. I run my hand along the plush surface and it feels like silk beneath my fingertips. The duvet alone probably cost more than my entire bedroom set put together. It looks luxurious and manly, but has a woman’s touch somehow. Maybe an interior decorator chose these things or his mother. Or a girlfriend perhaps.
Does Sam have a girlfriend? I giggle. Yes, Sam has lots of girlfriends, as I saw when I googled him this weekend. He’s all over the internet gossip sites.
I steer into the master bathroom. It’s huge, too, like the rest of the apartment. There’s a bath that’s the size of a small hot tub with jets layered throughout. A shower that could easily fit ten people.
Maybe it has at some point. I laugh again, and it echoes around the space. The acoustics are good in here if I want to have a concert shower, like I’ve been known to do.
I glance at his shaving cream and razor, where they lie next to the sink. I pick up his cologne and open it, smelling the spicy, woodsy scent. I put it down and start backing slowly out of the space when I hit something solid from behind. It’s too warm to be a wall. I turn to see Sam watching me. He doesn’t look happy.
“Oh,” I stammer sheepishly as my face starts to heat. I didn’t hear him enter. And I never meant to get caught. “I’m Emerson.”
I extend my hand. He doesn’t take it, making me feel foolish and annoyed all at once.
“What are you doing in my room?” he demands. He’s scowling down at me.
“Taking a tour,” I reply honestly.
He stays quiet, crossing his arms over his chest. He’s wearing workout clothes, and he’s muscular and intimidating, larger than I remember back in college the few times we ran into each other. His shoulders are broader now, and he’s lost the soft, rounded edges to his face. His jaw is square and currently clenched, covered in stubble, like he forgot to shave this morning. His hair is a little longer on top, but still the same dirty-blond shade and shaved along the sides and back. But those eyes … the gray-blue hue is the same. Cloudy and bright at the same time. A kaleidoscope of colors hiding depths that he doesn’t want anyone to see, especially a stranger like me. Because I’m the enemy.
“No one was here, so I thought I’d show myself around,” I continue, pretending to be more confident than I feel right now. “See where all the bathrooms are.”
“You have a bathroom in your room,” he counters.
“I know.” I spin on my heel and walk away from him, through his bedroom, and down the hall.
“You might be living here for a while—a short while, if I have anything to say about it—but my bedroom is off-limits to you. Don’t let me catch you snooping through my shit again.”
I roll my eyes, stopping to lean against the back of the couch. My posture is deceptively relaxed, though everything inside of me is twisted into nervous knots. Sam has a domineering presence, especially when he’s pissed. And he’s not hiding the fact that he isn’t thrilled to have me in his space. I expected it. But expecting it and experiencing it are two totally different things.
“I wasn’t snooping.” Lie. “Not one drawer was opened, and I didn’t have enough time to check out your closet.” That part is true. “But I promise not to let you catch me again.” I smirk.
He scoffs, the edge of his mouth tipped into a humorless grin. “I guess I’ll be investing in some cameras now. And some locks on the doors.”
“Don’t get the cameras,” I counter, walking into the kitchen. I start looking through cabinets until I find the glasses. I fill one with tap water and take a drink. “Anyone can hack into those, and then you’ll be plastered across the internet.” I cover my mouth in mock shock, like something just occurred to me. “Oh, wait. That’s right … you already are.”
He rests his hands on the marble island across from me and leans in. His biceps ripple and bulge from his weight. “Look, it’s no surprise that I don’t want you here. I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Well, your PR team seems to disagree. But for the record, I don’t want to be here either. This is a paycheck to me, nothing more.”
“Good. Then, you stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours.”
“Just as long as you stay out of trouble at the same time,” I add.
He narrows his eyes and studies me. Then, slowly, he smirks. I don’t like the look of it. It’s like something just occurred to him, and he’s planning and plotting my demise. The disdain seeps off his frame like dew evaporating off grass in the morning.
There’s a knock at the front door.
I glance over at him with a furrowed brow. “I thought people had to be announced when they entered this building.”
The intercom on the wall by the front door has remained silent.
He ignores me and turns to walk back to his bedroom. “Make yourself useful and answer the door.”
I start moving toward it even though he ordered me like I’m hired help.
“Oh, and if that’s the bunny I’m expecting … send her on back to my room.”
“I’m sending her home!” I yell, not sure if he’s kidding or serious.
His chuckle disappears behind a slammed door.
I open the front door, relieved to see Madison’s face smiling back at me rather than a random puck bunny. It would have been unfortunate to be faced with an uncomfortable situation before I’d even unpacked one box. But I should probably prepare myself for the unexpected. I think it’s going to be my reality for the next few months.
Madison barrels past me and into the apartment.
“Did you get moved in?” she asks.
“I did,” I answer, closing the door behind her. “Now, unpacking? That’s an entirely new ordeal. I haven’t even started.”
Madison glances around the space, speaking mostly to herself. “Just like Ollie’s place …”
“Does Ollie live in the building too?” I ask, leading her back to my bedroom.
She nods. “He’s a couple floors up. Several of the guys from the team have places here.”
Madison rents a small apartment less than a mile from here. I know because I’ve been there before. She refuses to move in with Ollie before they get married.
She said, “Why would he buy the cow if he’s getting the milk for free?”
But I’m pretty sure he’s getting all the milk he could possibly want anyway. Regardless, she has her place, and he has his. For now. But I think she stays over more often than when she sleeps at her apartment.
I kneel on the floor and start ripping the tape from a box with bedroom stuff written across the top, wishing I’d been more specific when I labeled these.
“Where’s Jude?” Madison asks, plopping down on my bare mattress.
“Jude?” I squint over at her. “Oh, Jude …” The patron saint of lost causes . “He’s in his room.”
“Is he treating you okay?” She lies down with her head propped on her hand. “Because I can kick his ass if he’s not.”
“For the full twenty seconds I spoke to him”—I shrug—“he was all right, I guess.”
I fail to mention the snooping part. Or the fact that he caught me.
She sighs and rolls over until she’s staring at my high ceiling. “He’s probably going to give you a hard time at first. He wasn’t exactly thrilled about getting a babysitter.”
“Companion,” I rectify.
Babysitter sounds so wrong when referring to this situation. Naughty almost.
I stop lifting things from the box long enough to ask a question I’ve been wondering. “Does Sam know who I am?”
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“We bumped into each other a couple of times in college. Does he know we went to Sinclair at the same time?”
She rolls her head until she’s looking at me. “He received a bio on you yesterday from that background check we ran on you.”
The PR firm and the Hawks organization dug into my past before officially hiring me for the job. They insisted on it before I was placed into Sam’s space. I think it’s more for legal reasons than his safety though. But if we continue having interactions like we just had, I might turn into a security risk when I murder him in his sleep.
But that’s not really what I’m asking Mads. I want to know if he remembers me from back then. Probably not.
I unpack my bedding and throw it onto the mattress beside Mads. She rises, and we start making the bed together.
“Tell me taking this position wasn’t a bad idea,” I whine to my friend, tugging until the fitted sheet slides over the rounded corner of the mattress.
She laughs at my expression. “It’s not a bad idea. Sam knows he has to toe the line if he wants to keep playing hockey. And all he’s ever wanted is to spend his days and nights on the ice. He’s not going to blow it now. His contract depends on it.”
“Famous last words,” I mutter.
“Don’t worry so much,” she assures. “I mean, how bad could it be?”
I narrow my eyes at her as I picture just how awful things could get, and she laughs again.
“Pass me that pillow,” she orders with a smile.
Mads keeps me company for the next hour while I continue to unpack before leaving to meet up with Ollie. Sam doesn’t make another appearance, staying in his room the entire time.
I take a break mid-afternoon to go grocery shopping because Sam’s pantry and refrigerator are bare. Not that I would eat his food even if he had some, but I’m still surprised to find none. I thought an elite athlete would be stocked up with healthy, energy-producing meals.
The apartment is quiet when I return with my food. Sam’s bedroom door is closed, but he could be in there, and I wouldn’t know it. I put away my purchases and snack on some hummus and carrots before returning to my room, where I spend the next few hours organizing my space. My phone rings late in the afternoon. It’s Eliott, wanting to grab a bite to eat. I agree to meet him in the lobby in thirty minutes. I don’t feel right about having him up to the apartment for some strange reason. Maybe because it’s Sam’s place and not mine.
We grab some sandwiches at a sub shop nearby. We argue part of the time, in between bites of chips and the turkey club I’m eating. Eliott doesn’t understand why I have to live with Sam or what I’m doing, accepting this position in the first place. I didn’t discuss it with him; I just leaped. Eliott’s never been a big fan of sports or athletes for that matter. I try to stress that I need the money and reassure him that this job changes nothing. It’s a temporary blip in our otherwise normal life. But I’m not sure if that’s true because I’ll be traveling now and gone for days at a time. I won’t be around as much to indulge Eliott’s packed schedule. I’m not sure why I feel relieved rather than sad about the distance, but at some point, I’ll need to explore those feelings.
My boyfriend seems uneasy that I’ll be roommates with Sam, hockey phenom by day and playboy by night. Eliott is usually steady and even. Unemotional. So, I’m not sure how to react to his jealousy. But even those who aren’t sports fans seem to know of the hockey player’s reputation. And if they don’t, all they have to do is pick up a phone and google his name. The first articles that pop up are about his transfer to the Hawks and the reasons behind it. The media eats up salacious stories, and Sam caught with his former GM’s daughter is a gossip site’s wet dream.
I do my best to reassure Eliott before he heads back to his place to study and I return to the apartment.
As the front door to my new place shuts behind me, I see that the kitchen lights are on, and the living room is dark. The television flickers as it plays some action movie across the screen. Sam’s head rests along the back of the couch, and his bare feet are propped on the coffee table in front of him. He doesn’t turn or acknowledge me when I enter the room.
“Hi,” I say softly, pausing at the edge of the sofa to watch as Tom Cruise walks into view, wearing a naval aviator suit.
“ Top Gun ,” I say, resting my hip on the opposite corner of the couch from where Sam sits.
I glance over. His eyes are still glued to the television. I’m across the room from the hockey star, but it feels more like we’re a million miles apart.
“I like this movie.”
Sam lifts an IPA and takes a drink. There’s an empty takeout container and two other empty beer bottles on the end table next to him. He still hasn’t looked at me.
I glance beyond the windows at the buildings that are glowing in the dark. The lake view is completely black now that the sun has disappeared for the day, though I think I see the faint lights of a boat in the distance.
“This place is amazing,” I admit, my voice low and reverent as I attempt to bridge the gap between us. The silence drags. I sigh. “Look, you’ve made it crystal clear that you don’t want me here. And I get it. I do. But can we at least be civil?”
His eyes narrow as his neck swivels in my direction.
“It could be worse,” I mumble. “You could have some giant, hairy guy breathing down your neck all the time.”
He turns back toward the screen and takes another drink. I spot a folder with my name on it on the coffee table.
“May I?” I ask, reaching for it.
“Go ahead.” He nods, speaking for the first time.
I open it and discover all the basic information about myself. My name and age. Hair color, eye color, height, and weight. My family. Where I grew up. When I attended Sinclair University and the arts degree I graduated with. Where I’ve been living in Chicago. Suki is mentioned. My sparse work history. They even included that I paint. All the facts are here. But there’s nothing personal. No mention of my favorite things or the way I take my coffee in the morning. The way a sunrise or a sunset evokes a thousand different emotions in my chest or the way my breath catches from excitement when I’m creating a new scene on canvas. There is only basic information here, nothing about what really makes me … me .
I close the folder and toss it next to his feet. It lands with a slap before sliding to rest against his heel.
“Is there anything you want to know about me?” I ask.
Kelly McGillis walks into the bar on the screen.
“Everything is in there.” Sam tips his chin toward the folder.
“The basics are there,” I admit.
He glances at me. “I only need the basics.”
He only wants the facts. He doesn’t really want to know me, though by the way he’s acting, I could’ve guessed that. It’s apparent that Sam resents me being here, in his space. He’s a grown man who doesn’t feel like he needs someone looking over his shoulder all the time. I expected as much, but getting iced out by him feels so much worse than I thought it would. Regardless, we have to deal with each other for this to work, and we both need it to work. I’m counting on the money, and he’s relying on a long career in hockey. It would be so much easier if we could develop some sort of friendship to break through the wall, even if it’s a tenuous one. It would make this situation much more tolerable for both of us.
“Do you remember me at Sinclair?” I ask, unsure of why I care.
His eyebrow arches. “Should I?”
I glance away. “No, I guess not.” I rise from the couch, surprised by the sting that revelation brings, and walk behind it toward my room. I pause when I get to the hallway. “We don’t have to be friends, Sam. But it would be a lot easier if we weren’t enemies either.”
I walk into my bedroom and shut the door.