Chapter 3
KATE
Istood outside the luxury apartment building, staring up at it and questioning my life choices. My wheeled suitcase kept tipping over in the slush, and I was precariously balancing a carrier with two coffees while trying to text Stone that I’d arrived.
“You’ve got this, Kate,” I whispered to myself, adjusting my scarf with my chin. “It’s just an apartment viewing. Not a Nobel Prize acceptance speech.”
After three attempts at pressing the apartment number on the intercom with my elbow (while not spilling the coffees), I was buzzed in without any questions. Good sign? Serial killer sign? The jury was still out.
The elevator ride to the eleventh floor gave me just enough time to rehearse my opening line.
I knocked on apartment 1103, plastering what I hoped was a normal-human smile on my face. The door swung open to reveal possibly the most intimidating man I’d ever seen.
Six-foot-something of solid muscle, dark hair, piercing blue eyes, and a scowl that could frighten a grizzly bear. This was not what I’d pictured when messaging “Stone” about the apartment.
“Can I help you?” His voice was deep, with an edge of impatience.
I thrust forward one of the coffees like a peace offering. “Hi! I’m Kate Ellis? The microbiologist? We messaged about the sublet?” Each sentence rose in pitch until I sounded like a cartoon chipmunk.
The man’s scowl deepened. “I think you have the wrong apartment.”
“Oh! I’m so sorry. This isn’t 1103? I’m looking for Stone?” I glanced down at my phone to double-check the address.
“I’m Stone. Austin Stone Callahan. But I’m not subletting my apartment.”
My heart sank. “But we messaged yesterday! About the two-bedroom near campus? Available immediately? I brought coffee as a thank you?” I wiggled the carrier hopefully.
Recognition flashed across his face, followed by something that looked dangerously like anger. “Dennis,” he muttered, pulling out his phone. “I should’ve known.”
“Who’s Dennis?” I asked, completely lost now. “I was messaging someone named Stone.”
“Stone is my nickname. Dennis is my teammate who apparently thinks pranking me is a professional sport. I just didn’t think he’d go as far as offering my apartment to a stranger.” He pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.
“So...there’s no sublet?”
Homeless again.
He stared at me for a long moment, then sighed dramatically. “You’d better come in while I figure this out.”
I followed him into an apartment that looked like it had been plucked from an architectural magazine. All clean lines, neutral colors, and not a single item out of place.
“Wow, this is...immaculate. Do you actually live here or is this a furniture showroom?” The words tumbled out before my brain’s filter could catch them.
He turned to face me, one eyebrow raised. “Yes, I live here. Some of us prefer order.”
“Right! Of course. Order is great. Very...orderly.” I nodded vigorously, causing the coffee carrier to tilt.
One cup slipped free, hit the pristine hardwood floor, and splashed its contents.
Thankfully, I’d already drunk most of it, but even the remaining few ounces began spreading across the flawless floor, inching toward what looked like an extremely expensive rug.
“Oh my god!” I dropped to my knees, frantically trying to stop the flow with my scarf.
“I’m so sorry! Caffeine molecules are surprisingly adept at adhering to porous surfaces due to their polar nature, which is why coffee stains are so persistent, but if we act quickly the tannic acid won’t have time to—”
“Stop!” His voice cut through my scientific rambling. “Just...stop.”
I froze.
“There are paper towels in the kitchen.” His jaw was clenched so tight I worried for his dental health.
I scrambled to my feet and hurried toward what I hoped was the kitchen, leaving coffee-soaked footprints in my wake. I could feel his glare burning holes in my back as I grabbed an entire roll of paper towels.
“This is fixable,” I assured him, dropping back to my knees and soaking up the last of the spill with the paper towels. Stone—or Austin—whatever his name was, moved with surprising efficiency despite a noticeable limp that he seemed determined to ignore.
“Is your knee okay?” I asked, gathering the coffee-soaked paper towels.
His expression closed off immediately. “It’s fine.”
“It doesn’t look fine. The way you’re favoring your left leg suggests possible damage—”
“Do you analyze everyone you meet, or am I just special?” he cut me off, his tone sharp enough to leave paper cuts.
I flushed. “Sorry. Occupational hazard. I observe things and then my mouth just...” I made an explosion gesture with my hands.
His phone rang, saving me from further embarrassment. He answered with a curt, “Dennis, what the hell were you thinking?”
I tried not to eavesdrop as I finished cleaning, but the apartment’s acoustics made it impossible not to hear his side of the conversation.
“No, she’s here now...Yes, with luggage...No, you can’t just...That’s not the point...”
While he argued, I texted Angel.
911. Apartment fell through. Current location: scary hot guy’s place. He’s mad. I spilled coffee. May die of embarrassment before hypothermia.
“Look,” Stone said, returning his attention to me. “There’s been a miscommunication. My teammate Dennis apparently told you that you could sublet this apartment?”
I nodded miserably. “Through your property manager. I was supposed to meet them here to sign paperwork and get keys.”
“This is my apartment,” he said firmly. “Part of my contract with the team includes this housing. It’s not available for subletting.”
“Team?” I asked, confused.
“Hockey. Minnesota Blizzard.”
The pieces clicked together. “The hockey tournament! That’s why I couldn’t find a hotel!”
“Winter Classic,” he corrected automatically. “And yes, the city’s packed because of it.”
I groaned, showing him a message in my mobile. “My fellowship housing won’t be ready for at least two weeks. And there’s literally nowhere else available.”
“That’s not my problem,” he said, but with slightly less conviction than before.
“I know it’s not.” I sighed, gathering my dignity along with my coffee-stained scarf. “I’m sorry for the intrusion. And the mess. I’ll figure something out.”
As I turned to leave, my phone rang—Dr. Eleanor Barnes, my fellowship advisor. Perfect timing.
“Dr. Barnes! Hi! I was just about to call you,” I lied, forcing cheerfulness into my voice.
“Kate, I’ve been trying to reach you. There’s an issue with your housing arrangements.”
“Yes, I just found out. But don’t worry, I’m working on a solution.” I glanced at Stone, who was watching me with an unreadable expression.
“Unfortunately, our guest accommodations are fully booked for the next two weeks due to the international microbiology conference. I’ve checked with administration, and there simply aren’t any options through the university right now.”
My heart sank. “I understand. I’ll find something.”
“Kate, I understand this housing situation wasn’t your fault, and I’m sorry the university put you in this position.
This fellowship is highly competitive, and it’s important that you’re able to fully focus on your research without additional stress.
If you feel this housing issue might impact your ability to concentrate, please let me know how we can help. ”
“It won’t be a problem,” I assured her, panic rising in my throat. “I have a temporary arrangement.”
Stone raised an eyebrow at that blatant lie.
After ending the call, I turned to him, desperation overriding my pride.
“Look, I know this isn’t your problem. But I really need this fellowship.
It’s my dream opportunity, and I’ve got nowhere else to go.
I’ll pay whatever rent you want, I’ll be the quietest roommate ever, and I promise not to spill anything else. Please.”
He studied me for a long moment, then spoke to the ceiling as if questioning his own sanity. “The guest room is through there. Bathroom’s attached. Kitchen’s communal.”
Relief flooded through me. “Really? You mean it?”
“Temporarily,” he emphasized. “Until you find something else. And there are rules.”
“Of course! Rules are great! I love rules! They create necessary boundaries and—”
He held up a hand. “Rule one: Quiet after nine p.m. I need my rest. Rule two: No guests. Rule three: Clean up after yourself immediately. Rule four: The main bathroom is mine. Rule five: No touching my food without asking.”
I nodded eagerly at each point. “Absolutely. I’m actually very clean. Well, in living spaces. My lab desk is admittedly a disaster zone, but that’s different because organized chaos actually promotes creative scientific—”
“Rule six,” he interrupted. “Minimal talking before I’ve had coffee.”
I smiled weakly. “Got it. I can be quiet. Sometimes. When necessary. Starting now.”
I pantomimed zipping my lips, which earned me what might have been the ghost of a smile before it vanished behind his stern expression.
“The guest room’s through that door. I have physical therapy in an hour.”
Taking the hint, I wheeled my suitcase toward my temporary sanctuary, feeling like I’d just survived a hurricane.
“And Kate?” he called after me.
I turned, expecting another rule.
“Try not to spill anything else.”
Once safely behind the closed door of the guest room, I let out the breath I’d been holding and collapsed onto the bed.
The room was as minimalist as the rest of the apartment—crisp white bedding, a simple nightstand, and a dresser with nothing on top.
Not even a dust particle seemed brave enough to settle on any surface.
“Well, this is happening,” I whispered to myself, staring at the ceiling.
The bathroom connected to the guest room was spotless, with fluffy white towels hanging near the shower.
After unpacking the essentials, I heard the apartment door close, signaling Stone’s departure for his physical therapy. The silence was both a relief and oddly oppressive.
I ventured out to explore the kitchen. Everything had its place—color-coded containers, precisely aligned appliances, and a refrigerator that contained primarily protein shakes and meal prep containers labeled by day.
“This man is either a highly functioning robot, or he has serious control issues,” I muttered, carefully opening cabinets to locate a glass for water.
After hydrating and gathering my courage, I called Angel to update her on my housing adventure since she hadn’t responded to my earlier text.
“You’re living with a professional hockey player?” she squealed when I finished my tale. “That’s like the setup for a romance novel!”
“More like a horror movie,” I corrected her. “He looks at me like I’m a particularly annoying lab specimen. Plus, he has more rules than my high school chemistry lab.”
“Is he hot?” Angel asked, completely missing the point.
I hesitated. “Irrelevant. Also, yes, objectively speaking, if you’re into tall, muscular, brooding men with jawlines that could cut glass. But he’s also clearly unhappy about this arrangement and probably counting the minutes until I leave.”
“Send me a picture.”
“Absolutely not!” I hissed. “I’m not going to creep on my reluctant roommate. Besides, I need to focus on finding another place ASAP.”
After hanging up, I spent two hours searching housing sites, finding nothing even remotely affordable within a reasonable distance from campus. Frustrated, I flopped back on the bed just as I heard the apartment door open.
My phone buzzed with a text.
Mr. Wrong Number
How’s your day treating you, Desert Survivor? Any close encounters with the bone collectors?
I smiled, grateful for the distraction, and typed back.
Let’s just say I’ve had better days. The universe seems determined to test my adaptability skills. How about you?
The response came quickly:
Mr. Wrong Number
Sometimes unexpected changes lead to interesting places. Though I imagine your Arizona blood is basically turning to slush in this weather.
I laughed softly, curling up against the headboard.
My extremities have gone numb so many times today I’m starting to think it’s their natural state. Is it always this brutal, or am I just lucky?
My mystery texter replied:
Mr. Wrong Number
You picked a special kind of Minnesota welcome week. It’s been three years since we’ve had a cold snap this intense. Even the locals are complaining.
Great. So I’m not just being a desert wimp. That’s oddly comforting.
So Mr. Wrong Number, what’s your idea of a perfect evening?
The response took longer than usual.
Mr. Wrong Number
Simple pleasures. You?
I bit my lip, feeling unexpectedly bold.
You’re surprisingly easy to talk to for a wrong number. Makes me wonder if fate has a sense of humor.
Mr. Wrong Number
Maybe it does. Or maybe talking to strangers is easier because there’s no history, no expectations.
I thought about that for a moment before replying:
True. Like how it’s easier to dance when nobody’s watching. Speaking of which, I should probably sleep. Big day tomorrow.