First Clash
H arper had barely dropped her duffel on the bedroom floor when Ethan appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, clearly ready to spar.
“You’re in Melissa’s old room,” he said, leaning casually against the frame. “It’s smaller than mine, but it gets the morning sun. If you’re a morning person, you’ll love it.”
She yanked open the curtains just to prove she didn’t care what he thought, though the golden spill of light made her heart soften a little.
Not that she’d admit it. “I’ll manage,” she muttered, digging for her notebook.
Organization was her comfort blanket, and she wasn’t about to let him see her unravel.
“Manage?” His grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “That’s a ringing endorsement.”
She turned, hands on her hips. “Do you always talk this much?”
“Only when I want to.” His tone was maddeningly smooth, like he knew exactly how to push her buttons.
Harper narrowed her eyes. “Let’s set some ground rules.”
Ethan’s brows lifted. “Oh, this should be good.”
“One: I need quiet in the mornings. No blasting music, no guitar solos, no surprise breakfast conversations. Two: Don’t touch my stuff. That includes the plant. And three: Keep your... whatever this is”—she waved a hand at his bare chest—“to yourself. Shirts are not optional in common spaces.”
His laughter filled the room, low and warm and entirely too attractive. “That’s harsh. You’re going to deprive the apartment of this fine view?”
“Rule four,” she snapped. “No comments like that.”
“Got it. You’re bossy.”
“I’m organized.”
“Bossy,” he repeated with a teasing lilt.
Harper’s jaw clenched. “And you’re impossible.”
Ethan tilted his head, smirk deepening. “We’re going to get along great.”
She groaned, dropping onto the bed and burying her face in her hands.
She had wanted stability, not verbal sparring matches with a man who looked like he’d stepped off the cover of a surf magazine.
And yet... part of her chest buzzed with a strange energy, like she was more awake than she’d been in months.
“Dinner,” Ethan announced suddenly.
She peeked through her fingers. “What?”
“You just got here. You need dinner. Lucky for you, I’m a decent cook.”
Harper snorted. “You? Cook? What is it, microwaved ramen?”
He clutched his chest in mock offense. “Ouch. I’ll have you know I make a mean stir-fry.”
“Do you also clean up after yourself?” she shot back.
He grinned. “Most of the time.”
“Not good enough.”
Ethan shrugged. “Guess you’ll have to supervise.”
Harper rolled her eyes, but something in her stomach twisted—not the bad kind, but the kind that came from the hint of possibility. She didn’t want to admit it, but his ridiculous charm was infectious. And maybe, just maybe, this wouldn’t be the total disaster she’d feared.
Still, she stood, straightening her shoulders like armor. “Fine. Dinner. But don’t think this means I’m letting my guard down.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, the playful glint in his eyes suggesting the exact opposite.