Roomie Wars Box Set (Books 1-3)
Page 1
Kat T. Masen
Roomie Wars – Box Set
Kat T. Masen
Copyright 2019 Kat T. Masen
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real events, real people, and real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, organizations or places is entirely coincidental.
All rights are reserved. This book is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author. All songs, song titles, and lyrics contained in this book are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.
Disclaimer: The material in this book contains graphic language and sexual content and is intended for mature audiences, ages 18 and older.
Editing by Swish Design & Editing
Book design by Swish Design & Editing
Cover design by Outlined with Love Designs
Cover Image Copyright 2019
Second Edition 2019
All Rights Reserved
Blurb
Two strangers.
One set of rules.
The ultimate battle.
Zoey’s love of the ‘80s lifestyle makes her quirky and fun.
It’s everything Drew seems to be the exact opposite of.
He’s straight down the line—she’s bubbly and effervescent.
Can these two roommates overcome some laugh out loud awkwardness, emotional heartbreak and some well awaited make-up moments that will make your heart swoon in this entertaining box set series?
Dedication
For those still obsessed with the eighties.
Table of Contents
Blurb
Dedication
Table of Contents
ROOMIE WARS
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
WEDDING WARS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Wedding Wars – To Husband & Wife
BABY WARS
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Epilogue
Other Books by Kat T. Masen
Playlist
Connect With Me Online
About The Author
Prologue
“I’m sorry, you’re into what?”
I glance down at the rental application form trying my best to make sense of what this guy just told me. Male, twenty-four, employed as a DJ at a popular night club in a seedy part of town.
“I’m into amateur sex. Filming hard-core amateur sex scenes. Will bringing girls here be a problem?” he questions, walking around the room, observing the prints on the wall as if this topic of conversation is no big deal.
I want to laugh. I should laugh. Is this guy for real?
“Kenny, is it?” I ask politely, without trying to ridicule him.
He cocks his head to the side and nods flashing his gold tooth like he’s just stepped out of a bad hip-hop video. “Women like to call me Ken.”
I feed into my curiosity, which is usually a bad thing. “Why do women like to call you Ken?”
Shuffling closer, invading what I like to call my ‘personal space,’ he responds in his most seductive voice, “Because if I’m Ken, you can be Barbie, and yours can be the box I come in.”
My throat closes, causing me to choke. That has to be the cheesiest line I’ve ever heard in my life! There’s no way any woman would fall for this. Not unless they’re drunk and desperately looking for a rebound. Even then—it’s a far shot.
He rests his hand on his belt, lifting his baggy jeans that have fallen during his attempt to seduce me. His knock-off Calvin Klein’s are purposely exposed, and I swear, with the thick gold chain draped around his neck, we’ve stepped back into the nineties when this was considered fashionable. The logo on his shirt says FBI with small writing below it that reads Female Body Inspector. Everything about this guy screams loser, and not the roommate I’m hoping to find today.
Next.
I send him on his merry way but not before he propositions me again by leaving his business card on my coffee table. Wishful thinking, dude.
Outside my doorway, another two applicants are waiting in the hall. After interviewing ten people today, I’m praying that my next roommate is one of the guys left in the hallway.
I placed the advertisement only a week ago. My last roommate, Cherise, did a runner, leaving me with a pile of dishes and two weeks of unpaid rent. Apparently, her boyfriend popped the question, so she automatically took that as ‘let’s move in together.’ Since then, I’ve been gun-shy about the whole finding-a-roommate thing. I have this theory—females were more likely to move in with a guy based on a spontaneous moment.
Men, they stand their ground for as long as they can. I figured it couldn’t be too hard to live with a guy. I have years of experience with two older brothers. So they stink, and occasionally, if not always, leave a trail of mess behind them. The toilet seat is left up and count yourself lucky if you live with a male who knows how to aim. I’ll take that over girly drama any day.
I open the door and call the next person in, my eyes glued to the clipboard that rests in my hands. Then, in walks blue eyes.
Blue eyes—or Liam, as his application form says—is an absolute drop-dead stunner. His occupation reads ‘model.’ Well, duh. Liam extends his hand, and I shake it noticing how soft and large his hands are. With my jaw permanently stuck to the ground, I attempt to compose myself and start the interview.
I clear my throat trying to calm the nervous energy that so quickly has escalated between my legs. “So Liam, tell me a little bit about yourself.”
“Sure.” He smiles warmly, and I can’t help but be drawn to his full lips. They look so delicious and… focus! I cross my legs, ignoring my raging libido.
“I’ve got three sisters, all younger. I enjoy playing sports, my favorite sport being football.”
Oh, sweet Jesus.
The temperature in the room is stifling hot, and I scan the coffee table for the air-conditioner remote. It’s nowhere in sight, so I’m forced to sit here in front of this beautiful man and pretend he does not effect whatsoever, all the while praying my deodorant lives up to its slogan, protecting me from any sticky situation with round-the-clock fresh-smelling armpits.
His pose distracts me—long, athletic legs with the perfect amount of muscle covered
in loose shorts. If I tilted my head to the right, quite possibly I could sneak a peek at the crown jewels.
He continues to speak, interrupting my plan, “I’m an aspiring model, but during the week I volunteer at an orphanage across town.”
I’m swooning. I never have, ever, in my life swooned over a guy. I’m certain that an angel dropped this perfect man into my apartment with his piercing blue eyes, dashing smile, and gorgeous ripped body just to test me. He looks and sounds smart and is everything a woman would want to wake up to each morning for the rest of her life.
But I’m roommate-hunting, not on some game show looking for love.
My heart, mind, and body are torn into a great dividing wall.
I spent the last year saving every penny so I could afford to finish my degree in architecture. Distractions will deter me from reaching my goal. I’ll be on edge all the time trying to impress him or something. God forbid if I wear my ratty T-shirt with the holes all over my back or leave my granny undies hanging in the bathroom. I know myself too well—I have to let him go.
But he’s so pretty, it hurts!
Move on.
Next.
I continue to make small talk then tell him I’ll call him with an answer. Being the perfect gentleman, he extends his hand once again, and a little too eagerly, I grab it and don’t let go. The shake seems to go on forever until I reluctantly pull away. Liam walks out the door allowing me a few minutes to pull myself together. Why am I letting this guy go again? Shake it off, Zoey. Eyes on the prize, not on his pants.
I call the next person to come in. The door creaks open, and a young guy pops his head around the corner. I’m surprised by how young he looks—maybe twentyish—but it could be the SpongeBob T-shirt and old Chucks he’s wearing. He’s slightly on the chubby side, appearing self-conscious while he fans his body by airing the bottom of his shirt. He appears pretty ordinary with his dark hair and brown eyes hiding behind thick, black glasses.
Placing his hand in his pocket, he pulls out his inhaler and takes a puff while I wait for him to get himself together.
Just admit it, he screams geek.
Perfect!
I motion for him to take a seat, and he sits on the brown leather armchair looking around the room uncomfortably, struggling to make eye contact.
“So, Andrew,” I start, reading the details on his form. “Tell me a little bit about yourself.”
“Uh, o-okay,” he stutters nervously. “I’m twenty-four. Currently studying medicine. I work at a video store down at the mall while I finish my degree.”
There’s something unique about his accent. Not quite American, a hint of British or Australian if I’m not mistaken. I want to ask him, but he seems to be nervous and intimidated by this process. It isn’t like a job interview. It’s odd that a grown man would be nervous around me.
“Studying to be a doctor? Impressive,” I tell him. “And your surname is Baldwin. Are you related to Alec, Stephen, Daniel, and what’s the other one that starred in that movie as a stalker?”
He appears to relax a little, then releases a soft chuckle. “Can’t say we’re related, but I think you’re referring to Billy.”
Of course, he knows that. Sharon Stone is the epitome of a sex goddess and every jerk-off fantasy. If you’re a guy and haven’t seen Sliver, you might as well be gay.
“Well, Andrew. Your application looks good, and so far, you’re the best applicant.”
Just get this over and done with. Get Liam and his perfect everything out of your head. You didn’t work your ass off so you could throw it away because of some guy who would make such beautiful babies. Andrew ticks all the boxes—he looks intelligent in a geeky kind of way, not a womanizer who will attract ladies to the apartment, and most of all, I’m not attracted to him one bit.
I give him my best welcoming smile. “When can you move in?”
Adjusting his glasses above the bridge of his nose, he manages a small smile, extending his hand as we shake on our new agreement.
It will be the first time I’ve lived with a man besides my dad and brothers, and the first time Andrew’s ever lived with a woman. After much deliberation, we agree we need to establish rules. And so, Zoey Richards and Andrew Baldwin vow never to break the five cardinal rules of the roommate agreement.
Rule Number One: Neither of us has ‘maid’ listed on our resume. It’s every man/woman to clean up after themselves.
Rule Number Two: The toilet seat should always be left down.
Rule Number Three: No partners or lovers are to stay more than one night in a row. Otherwise, rent is payable.
Rule Number Four: All disputes are to be settled old-school—rock, paper, scissors.
Rule Number Five: Nudity is not acceptable. In the event of any mishaps, it must never, ever, be spoken of again.
Just five simple rules we need to stick to, and yes, I added the last one since I have a bad habit of getting drunk and sleeping naked on the couch.
A week later, Andrew Baldwin moves in, and I officially have a roomie.
Chapter One
Zoey
Oh crap.
I look down at my tattered Rainbow Brite shirt. The guacamole sits right in the middle of my collarbone, producing a nice stain next to the ketchup spill from last week. Pulling my shirt toward my mouth, I run my tongue along the edge and carefully try to clean myself up.
Yeah, I’m a slob.
A slob that is lying across the couch on a Friday night watching reruns of Friends. The episode airing is hilarious and one of my all-time classic favorites. It’s when the girls lose the apartment forgetting Chandler’s ever-so-elusive job title. I’m in stitches, accidentally spitting a corn chip that goes flying across the room. I should probably go pick it up, but continue to lie here ignoring the mess surrounding me.
It’s the best way to unwind after a horrendous week in the office. It’s surprising that I made it through the week without strangling my boss. Another reminder that my job sucks, and I’m the moron putting up with his shit. Cue the violins. I only have myself to blame, and sitting beside a bag of jumbo corn chips I found at Costco is living proof.
Sadly, the jumbo bag of corn chips is the highlight of my week. I jumped with excitement when I came across them stacked up on the shelf. I also resorted to taking a selfie with the chips and went on to post it online, hash-tagging the pic like an attention-craving social media whore.
Pathetic in all forms.
And that says everything about how uneventful my life has become.
Since Friday night is supposed to be the time to let loose and party, I thought why not skip dinner and head straight to the corn chips and guacamole—and it’s not a party without some beers. I’m even wearing my fluorescent-pink hoop earrings with my hair crimped just for fun.
Party of one. Just little old me.
Throughout the ads, I begin to channel surf when I hear the rattle of the door followed by the sound of keys. The door opens wide, and my roommate, Drew, walks in carrying a grocery bag. With his spare hand, he shuts the door behind him and throws the keys onto the small side table near the entrance.
I’m not surprised Drew is still dressed in his scrubs since he practically lives at the hospital. On top, he wears a gray hoody with matching gray Nikes. My eyes move back to his grocery bag, praying he picked up some shampoo since I used the last of his bottle this morning. All I see is carrots and a bunch of green stuff. Ugh.
“You know, that shirt doesn’t have much life left in it. Another spill and I think it’s time to part ways,” Drew happily points out while blocking my view of the television.
“Oh, hello, roomie! Nice to see you. How was your day, Zoey? Fine thanks, Drew,” I comment.
“Hi, Zo, how was your day?” He humors me.
I don’t even give him a chance to sit down and start ranting about my shitty day at work which began when my asshole boss walked into the office with a chip on his shoulder. I refer to that chip on his shoulder as his s
tay-at-home wife, who I believe is having an affair with the electrician. There’s only so many bulbs that need replacing.
“So, then he says to me, ‘I sent you that email yesterday, Zoey, to be acted on today,’ and I’m like, it was to order paper for the photocopier. The receptionist does that. I’m supposed to be your right hand learning about architecture and studying blueprints and not fetching paper.” I let out a huff, barely catching my breath. “Anyway, how was your day?”
“A woman died on the table today. Complications with a breast augmentation done by some backyard surgeon.”
His face remains placid, and I struggle to comprehend how someone can watch that happen and then carry on as if it’s an ordinary day. Plus, I’m a douchebag for rambling on about my problems.
I twist my body and sit up straight. “I’m sorry. God, I sound like an idiot with my first-world problems.”
“I like your first-world problems. But seriously, Zo, get rid of the shirt. And what’s with the pink earrings?” He grimaces.
Drew likes to joke around, but this is taking it too far. Shirt jokes are not well received. This isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation, and it won’t be the last.
“Do you know how long I’ve had this shirt? And if I get rid of this shirt, you get rid of your SpongeBob shirt.”
“You owned it before you had a pair of tits. Your auntie gave it to you on your thirteenth birthday. You almost lost the shirt in your move back in 2000, and you cried for a week till you found it buried in a box labeled fragile,” he says all in one breath. “And the answer is no. SpongeBob stays.”
“Okay, Mr. Know-It-All,” I sneer. “My point is it’s still in great condition, and this stain would easily come out.”
Truth be told, this shirt has only a few weeks left, a couple of months tops. The last time I ran it through the wash, Rainbow Brite lost her dress, leaving only the outline of her head. The holes keep getting bigger, and the ketchup stain is a reminder the fabric is so fragile that even the best of stain removers won’t work. This shirt is my comfort zone, and I have a terrible habit of holding on to things from the past.