Room 4 Rent: A Steamy Romantic Comedy

by Shey Stahl

  “Sometimes the hot water takes a while,” I tell him, running my hand over the marble countertops that match the ones inside the house. Can you tell I’m nervous in here with him?

  If not, I am.

  Cason doesn’t say anything and looks around, the early afternoon sun filtering in through the roman shades.

  Much like our home, Collin didn’t spare any expense when building this apartment or the putting green in our backyard. I plan on renting an excavator, tearing that green up, and installing a sauna. Someday.

  I show Cason around and head into the bedroom when the door to the studio opens, and in walks Tatum like she lives here. Wearing purple corduroy overalls with lace trim at the bottom, no shirt, and a straw hat she refused to leave behind at an antique store, she strolls through the studio apartment above the garage.

  No lie, she walks up to us, flicks her hat up with a snap of her thumb and forefinger, and flattens her lips. “Hey, bitches.”

  Thank you, Sadie.

  Cason snorts. “I think this kid might be my new best friend.”

  I roll my eyes as Tatum walks around the room. “Careful what you say around her. She’s a repeater.”

  “Noted.” His eyes move from the bed, and he tosses a lazy smile my way. “This should do.”

  I hate that my insides turn to mush. Had I been out of the game too long? Is this what men are like now?

  Can you classify a college boy a man?

  Asking for a friend.

  Fuck, stop staring at him.

  I’m trying!

  “You tried this bed out yet?” he asks, his voice low and seductive.

  “We can’t have sex. At all. You’re on the bench throughout these six months.”

  Blinking slowly, he does that thing he did in the bar when he licked his lips. “We’ll see about that.” Cornering me against the wall separating the bed from the bathroom, he breathes me in. “I desperately want a chance on the mound again.”

  I search his eyes, unable to stop my breathing from increasing. Placing my hands on his chest, I don’t push him away. “You know where this is going to lead.”

  His breathing mirrors my own. “And where’s that?”

  “Hello!” Tatum yells from the bathroom. “I need toilet paper to wipe my ass.”

  We all burst out laughing, aside from Tatum.

  “People! I need toilet paper for my butthole.”

  My cheeks are so red. “Okay, well, at least you know the toilet works!”

  “You know, I had my doubts, so it’s nice to have that cleared up.” With a grin, he motions to the door. “I have to get to the field. I’ll be back after my game.”

  Shit. Did you notice the blip of excitement that he’s returning later? This is bad, guys. Really bad!

  Refers to the action of hitting a pitch hard with the sweet spot of the baseball bat.

  CASON

  My plan is coming together nicely, don’t you think? The kid likes me. I think we’re friends. She stole my hat and let me hold her our first meeting. I’d say that’s a home run there. And Sydney rented me the room. I’ve also successfully sent every female in my family a painting, aside from my mom. I disowned her a long time ago. And on top of that, Sydney is falling for me.

  Do I want that?

  For a guy who’s been focused on baseball his entire life and making it to the majors, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hope she felt something for me. Hey, I know in a few months my life will be changing drastically, and my place of residence is up in the air, but I can’t help the pull she has on me. From the moment she turned around in that coffee line and stared back at me with surprise, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her.

  During stretches before the game, the guys are talking about their usual shit. Who they fucked, who they snuck into the locker room the night before, and whatever else they can think of. Some days, it’s who got a hard-on in their cup. Other days, it’s whose batting average is higher.

  I don’t usually listen, but they’re extra loud today. Seeing how I’m usually a Saturday night pitcher, and I’m set to make another appearance in the same series, I’m worried about my arm and less worried about how flexible the brunette in Noah’s marketing class is.

  “She has no gag reflex,” Noah tells us, as if we should care.

  “Bullshit.” Forest rolls his eyes.

  “It’s the truth.” He makes a humping motion with his mitt in front of his dick. “I touched that dangly thing in the back of her throat.”

  “Pay attention in anatomy,” Forest points out, stretching his quads out. “It’s called a uvula.”

  “I know what the fuck it’s called, bruh. But if Cardi B can say it, imma. Besides, uvula sounds like vulva, and that’s a stupid word.”

  Ez notices I’m not paying attention to them and nudges me. “How’s the MILF?” he asks.

  I glare at him, rolling my head from side to side and shaking out my arms. “Don’t call her that.”

  “Why? I’m not saying it in a derogatory way. She’s hot as fuck. I’d buzz the Brillo with her.”

  Buzz the Brillo? Every day it’s a new term with him. Remember boneless babies? Worst one yet.

  “Regardless. Don’t talk about her like that.” I take the ball he sends my way and stare down at the seams.

  “Why? You falling for her already?”

  “No.” But I can’t stop thinking about her, and the idea of not seeing her every single day disappointments me more than I care to admit.

  I walk away from him and toward Chiasson. “Are you distracted, Reins?”

  I shake my head, ducking into the dugout. “No, sir.”

  Staring out at the diamond, I think about my pitches these last couple of games. My changeup could use some work tonight. I think about my dad and his advice over the years.

  There’s the life you want. There’s the life you get. And what you make of it is up to you.

  My dad spent most of his adult life on the road, and his wife, she spent most of her time in the arms of others.

  I spent my childhood using baseball as an excuse to get away from her.

  I’d be lying if I said her vindictive personality didn’t follow me when I left home. In ways, it had. Unfortunately, I had a past I didn’t know how to explain, and no desire to. I’m trying to forget that part of my life when she used me as leverage against my dad.

  On the mound, I’m able to throw a pitch and have peace within myself.

  The game that freed me.

  Tonight’s game starts uneventfully and ends the same. We take the series with a 7-2 win, and I add fourteen strikeouts to my season stats along another home run. I rush from the clubhouse as soon as I’m done with the press and showering, eager to get back to Sydney’s.

  Pulling up to the house, I park in front of the garage and notice the lights from the pergola are on, as are the pool lights. She could leave them all night for all I know, but I make my way through the back entrance that she showed me earlier.

  I’m disappointed the entrance to the room above the garage isn’t through the house. I’m dying to tease her with a “Honey, I’m home” line I know might spark the smile I’ve been obsessing about these last few days.

  Breathing in deeply, I glance around the backyard and notice Sydney, Tatum, and Sadie are outside near the fire pit. Tatum’s jumping from the hot tub to the pool and then back again like it’s a game.

  Sadie motions to me. “The boy’s here.”

  Sydney looks over her shoulder and smiles at me, wine in her hand. “Oh, hey.”

  I step forward, my bag on my shoulder, sliding my hat around backward. “Ladies.”

  Sydney stands. “Fourteen strikeouts?” She holds up her hand for a high-five. I return it and hate the way I want to take her hand and shove it down my jeans. I’m obsessed with her. Everything from the way her blue eyes look under the warm lighting and the shine of her brown hair. And that she smells like sugar cookies. It’s weird to smell like sugar, but I love it
and want to take a bite out of her.

  “Are you sore?” Then her mouth clamps closed, as if she didn’t want to ask that. I realize now, she’s wearing a bikini under a sheer black cover-up. “There’s a hot tub if you want.”

  “I’m getting more wine.” Sadie disappears inside the house.

  Dropping my bag on the ground, I slowly remove my shirt at the same time she takes off her dress. “I could use a good soaking.”

  Knowing the kid is present, I control myself and don’t touch her, even though every inch of me is dying to.

  Tatum pops up out of the hot tub and runs over to me. “Boy, you have bumps on your belly.”

  Hey, at least I know now her dad wasn’t much to look at. Pride rolls through me. “Really?” I slide my hand down my stomach that is honed to perfection. I work hard for this body and spend nearly every day in the weight room to remain on top of my athletic ability. You’re only as good as your dedication to your craft. Winking at Sydney, I push out my stomach to make it look like I’ve got a beer belly. “What if I go like this?”

  Tatum quirks her head to the side. “Do you have a baby?”

  “That might be hard to explain. Unless the burrito I ate earlier impregnated me.”

  Sydney laughs. “He has muscles, sweetie.”

  “Oh.” She’s dripping with water and shivering. “Can I watch Frozen?”

  Sydney nods, wrapping a towel around her. “But then it’s bedtime, okay?”

  Tatum nods, but it’s clear she has no intention of going to bed. She disappears inside the house where Sadie went, and I’m pleased to find myself alone with Sydney.

  I step toward her. “Wanna get wet?” I reach out and brush the hairs dancing on her cheek from the wind.

  “It’s probably a bad idea.”

  “Then it’s a good one. Bad decisions have the best stories.” I start to unbuckle my belt, and the clanking draws her eyes lower. There’s a spark in her eyes, maybe a distant memory from our night together, but her body resists, and she backs up.

  “For a few minutes. Then I have to get Tatum in bed.”

  “I got it,” Sadie yells out the back doors.

  Sydney groans. “Okay, but hands to yourself. This is a no touching area.”

  Ha. Not happening.

  I don’t have swim shorts with me, so I strip down to my black boxer briefs, knowing that when I get out of here, they will be clinging to me. It might be the perfect plan for me.

  I can barely stand to watch her slowly immerse herself in the steaming water across from me. She offers me a beer, which I drink only because I don’t have a game tomorrow. We sit there in silence, staring up at the stars, the only sound is the hiss from the jets of the hot tub.

  With water beading off my lashes, I glance over to see Sydney staring at the same sky. “Are things easier now?”

  She turns her head. “What do you mean?”

  “Financially. Now that you’ve rented the room out.”

  “Oh, yeah. It is.”

  “And emotionally?” I can’t imagine what she’s been through. He may have been a cheating asshole, but I’m sure there’s a part of her that misses him. I know because the look on her face is one my dad had many times when he’d return home, and my mom had pulled her bullshit on him. He hated what she did to him, but he still loved her. I was so fucking proud of him the day he divorced her.

  An emotional laugh escapes Sydney. “Am I that transparent?”

  I move closer, turning to face her. “No, but I know that look.” I wait for her eyes to find mine. There’s apprehension in hers and empathy in mine. “I know because I’ve been in your position. Well, the cheating part. If these last six months taught me anything, it’s that one lapse in judgment can completely destroy another human being.”

  “Someone pull a fastball on you?”

  “You could say that.”

  She breathes out slowly, her cheeks red, her eyes wide. Reaching up, she touches my face. “I… like you, Cason.” Her hand drops. “And that’s a bad thing for me to have happen at the moment.”

  “Why?” I move closer, my hands finding her thighs under the water. She lets me run them up the outside before I take her in my hands and position her effortlessly on my lap. With her stare on the house, she blinks and looks down at me. I know she feels my reaction to her straining against her, barely contained inside my shorts. Sliding my hands up her shoulders to the top, I push down and grind into her. A soft moan falls from her lips. “Bad can go so fucking good,” I whisper against the shell of her ear.

  Her knees slide, her center in line with my cock now. I fight the urge to slip my hand between us and enter her like I want to. It’d be easy, but I’m not about to do something she doesn’t want.

  “Cason, we can’t do this.”

  “Why?” I latch my mouth onto her neck, eager for more. I assault her neck, shoulders, chest, anything I can with my tongue, trying to convince her this is so right.

  The water splashes around us as she moves again, dragging herself up and down my swollen, very needy cock. It’s fucking perfection. Dropping my hands to her ass, I increase her motions, my body hunching forward, so desperate for more.

  Her breathing hitches, and she tries to slow us down. “I’m serious. We have to stop.”

  I don’t wait before I trail my mouth to hers and try to seal the deal with my kisses. I know how to draw even the most stubborn hitters into the strike zone, but this one, she’s making me work for it for sure.

  Her back arches when my tongue enters her mouth, her moan released on her next breath. “We can’t.”

  “Not until you give me an actual fucking reason.”

  “I did.”

  “Can’t isn’t a reason.” Taking advantage of the position we’re in, I drag her over my cock faster. “What about just the tip?”

  She laughs into my mouth. “That’s a tease.”

  I bring our mouths together again. “Please? I need you. Look what you’re doing to me.”

  “Look what you’re doing to me,” she whispers, dropping her hand between us. She pushes her bikini bottoms aside, and then she rubs her pussy on the head of my cock. It’s fucking torture. “I keep thinking about you. Constantly. And I can’t.”

  I pull my mouth from hers, panting. I can’t even catch my goddamn breath. “Why not?”

  She swallows thickly and inches back away from me. “Because I’m broken at the moment.”

  “I can give you a Band-Aid. Just sex.” I move closer again, refusing to allow space between us. “Nothing else. At least then you can forget about all that other shit when we’re together.”

  “Sex? You’re offering sex only?”

  No. My heart’s on the line too, but I’m not about to tell a single mother that. I swallow. “Yeah. I won’t ask for anything else. Just sex.”

  She considers it. I know she does. You can literally see her thinking about it.

  There’s crying from the house, followed by Sadie yelling for Sydney. “Hey, Syd?”

  She jumps back away from me. “Yeah?”

  “Tatum needs you. She’s taking a bath and freaked out over me trying to get her out.”

  Sydney stands, her tits in my face. I make a sad face, wanting to cry with how good she looks wet, and for my cock because it looks like we’re doing a solo act tonight.

  I slump against the jets. Fuck.

  She disappears in the house and leaves me alone in the tub but not before telling me she’ll think about it. I need to step my game up on the plate.

  Another word for the third base position.

  SYDNEY

  Sex. He wants sex from me. That’s all. Nothing else. No attachments.

  That might not be so bad, right?

  Said no one ever! Haven’t we learned anything from romantic comedies? Sex with no attachments does not work.

  Fuck. Look at me, elbow-deep in meat.

  Actually, literally, elbow deep in meat. I’m baking. For the first time in three weeks since Co
llin died, I’m in the kitchen baking a meal that wasn’t given to me or from a box.

  And trying to make something from Joanna Gains cookbook.

  Monday, while Cason’s at school and practice, I decide to cook for him. After some research, okay, texting with Ez that turns into him asking if he can use my minivan as the “team bus,” I get out of him that Cason loves Thanksgiving. It’s his favorite holiday. So I decide on Joanna’s “Friendsgiving” casserole. It’s basically Thanksgiving in a casserole dish with turkey, stuffing, and then on the side, you serve mashed potatoes, with gravy, green beans and cranberry sauce. On top of that, I decide to make him a lemon pie for dessert with homemade whip cream.

  You should have stopped me somewhere in the middle of all that shit because halfway through this, I regret the decision—big time. I’m not a baker, and following directions isn’t my thing. Not only that, but Tatum has eaten most of the graham crackers and bread for the casserole and yelled at me twice, “More peetits.” She means peanuts. I swear. Why she’s screaming peetits is beyond me.

  Stirring the chicken mixture into the pan of sautéed vegetables, I hand Tatum another graham cracker, thankful I bought three boxes of them. “They’re graham crackers. Not peanuts.”

  She stares up at me, scowling, and then hands me the peanut butter jar. Oh.

  Looking down at the jar and her face, I realize she’d been dipping them in there, and the jar is empty.

  Reading through the recipe, I stir the chicken mixture and decide it’s missing something. I dig through the cupboard.

  You should have added thyme, Joanna.

  I dump that in there, stir, and realize how white it is.

  Shit, that’s a lot of cream. What if he’s lactose intolerant? Let’s hope not.

  And, finally, butter. Yes! You know it’s a good recipe when it calls for a cup of butter.

  When I have it all mixed together, and in the dish, Sadie shows up having actually attended class this morning. “Smells good in here,” she notes, sitting at the island and eyeing the oven. “Did you cook?”