Chapter 2
He’s walking away. Just like that.
"Unbelievable," I mutter, setting my suitcase down with more force than necessary. The sound echoes through the apartment—my apartment.
I watch his broad shoulders disappear around the corner. I can’t believe he’s so defensive when I’m the one walking into a fully furnished apartment of his things. There’s not one packed box in here.
My jaw clenches as I look around the space. His coffee mug sits on the counter, still warm. His hockey sticks are leaning against the wall. There’s a pile of mail on the kitchen island with his name on it—Cameron something.
I should feel bad for him. Maybe he’s going through something, maybe he couldn’t find another place in time. But I’ve been sleeping on Julia’s couch for two weeks while waiting for this day, living out of a suitcase, and I’m done being understanding about other people’s problems.
The apartment is gorgeous with clean lines and floor-to-ceiling windows that show off Seattle’s skyline.
The kitchen has granite countertops and stainless-steel appliances.
This is the nicest place I’ve ever had the chance to live in, and I’m not giving it up because some guy couldn’t get his act together.
I drag my suitcase toward what I assume is a bedroom but stop when I hear him on the phone in what must be his room. His voice carries through the thin walls, frustrated and sharp.
"Nelly, it’s Cameron Gray. Call me back. This is urgent."
Poor guy.
I continue down the hallway and push open the door to what I hope is a second bedroom. Relief floods through me—there’s a queen bed, a dresser, and a window that faces west. It’s smaller than what’s probably the master bedroom, but it’s more space than I’ve had in years.
The room is clean, almost sterile. No personal touches, like it was staged for showing apartments. Maybe he was using it as a guest room. Either way, it’s mine now, and I lucked out.
I start unpacking, hanging my few dresses in the empty closet, placing my books on the dresser. Each item I put away feels like staking a claim. By the time I’m finished, the space looks lived-in, comfortable.
From the kitchen comes the sound of cabinet doors slamming. He’s probably taking his frustration out on the furniture, making it known that he’s not happy I’m here. But whatever, I’m hungry too, and I have just as much right to that kitchen as he does.
I find him standing at the stove, back rigid with tension. He’s changed into a gray t-shirt that shows off arms that are definitely the result of serious gym time. When he hears me come in, he glances over his shoulder with the same scowl he’s been wearing since I arrived.
"Find everything you need?" The question is loaded with sarcasm.
"Actually, yes." I open the refrigerator and peer inside. It’s well-stocked—expensive yogurt, fresh vegetables, craft beer. The kind of food budget I dream about. "Mind if I make some dinner?"
He turns around fully now, spatula in hand. "This is still my kitchen. My food."
"Yeah, but I’ve been on the road, and I eat like a mouse.
I’ll food for me and take a little plate.
How does that sound?" I don’t wait for him to respond.
I just pull out ingredients for pasta, arranging them on the counter.
"And your lease had ended, right? So technically the food you left in the fridge is mine. .."
His jaw tightens as he watches me. He’s either not someone who likes to talk, or he’s too upset.
I fill a pot with water and set it on the burner next to his.
For a moment, he looks like he wants to argue, but then his phone rings. He glances at the caller ID and his expression shifts to something almost vulnerable.
"I have to take this." He steps onto the balcony, closing the glass door behind him.
Through the window, I can see him pacing, one hand running through his dark hair. Whatever conversation he’s having, it’s not going well. His free hand gestures sharply, and even though I can’t hear the words, his body language screams frustration.
I turn back to my pasta, but I keep watching him. There’s something desperate in the way he’s moving, like this phone call might determine his entire future. For the first time since I arrived, I feel a flicker of sympathy.
Then I remember sleeping on Julia’s lumpy couch for two weeks, remember the security deposit I can’t afford to lose, remember all the times I’ve been the one who had to adjust, had to compromise, had to make do with less.
If this turns out to be a scam, I am going to scream.
When he comes back inside, his face is grim. He looks at me like he’s seeing me for the first time, really taking in the fact that I’m not going anywhere. It’s like he forgot I was here for a second.
"Look," he says finally, and his voice has lost some of its sharp edge. "This situation is…not right… Whenever we get in contact with the landlord, we can solve it. Until then, I can’t leave. There are circumstances..."
I stir the pasta, not looking at him. "But I have a lease that started today, and I need a place to live. Your circumstances don’t trump my legally binding agreement."
He’s quiet for so long that I finally turn around. He’s staring at the floor, and in the light from the kitchen, I can see he looks exhausted. Not just tired, he’s like completely wrung out, like he hasn’t slept in days.
"How long?" I ask, surprising myself with the question.
"What?"
"How long do you need to figure out your circumstances?"
He looks up at me, and I catch something raw in his expression before he locks it down. "I don’t know. A few days, maybe a week."
I consider this, twirling pasta around my fork. A week isn’t forever. And despite his attitude, he hasn’t actually tried to physically remove me, which shows more restraint than I’ve gotten from some men.
"Fine," I say finally. "One week. But I’m staying in your guest bedroom. We share the apartment until you figure out your next move."
Relief flashes across his face so quickly I almost miss it.
"I’m setting ground rules."
His eyebrows raise slightly. "You’re setting ground rules? In my apartment?"
"Our apartment. Temporarily." I lean against the counter, trying to look more confident than I feel. "No bringing random people over without warning. No hogging the bathroom during morning rush hours. And if you eat my food, you replace it."
"Fine. Same goes for you."
"Obviously." I pause, then add, "And I get to use the kitchen whenever I want. I’m not going to tiptoe around your schedule."
"Agreed." He hesitates, then says, "One more thing. If anyone asks, you don’t know me."
The request is strange enough that I study his face, looking for clues. "Why?"
"Because I said so."
The dismissive tone grates on me, but I nod anyway. "Fine by me. I prefer keeping to myself."
When dinner is ready, we eat in silence, sitting at opposite ends of the kitchen island like we’re afraid of contaminating each other. The pasta is good, but the tension makes it hard to enjoy. Every few minutes, one of us glances at the other, then quickly looks away.
This is going to be the longest week of my life.
After dinner, I escape to my room and call Julia. She picks up on the second ring, and I can hear the TV in the background.
"Please tell me you didn’t get murdered by your mysterious roommate."
"Not yet." I flop onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. "Turns out he’s supposed to move out but can’t for some reason. We’ve agreed to coexist for one week."
"A week? Brie, are you insane?"
"What choice do I have? I can’t afford to lose my deposit, and finding another place would take months."
Julia sighs. "Just... be careful, okay? You don’t know anything about this guy."
"I know he makes good coffee and owns way too many protein shakers." I pause, remembering the look on his face during that phone call. "And I think he’s in some kind of trouble."
"All the more reason to keep your distance."
"I will. It’s just temporary."
But as I hang up and settle into bed, I can’t shake the feeling that nothing about this situation is going to be as simple as we both want it to be.