The Six Month Lease (Southern Hearts Club Book 2)

by Melanie Munton

  “You’re free to return the favor,” he adds in his trademark sensual voice.

  Yeah, I won’t be making that mistake again.

  The one time I naïvely hung up my bras and lacy delicates to air dry in the bathroom, like I’ve been doing for years, he stole every single item and hid them around the house.

  It took me three hours to locate every piece.

  The last one took the most time. The lacy pink panties I discovered underneath his pillow that I suspect he never wanted me to find. I’d felt a disturbing pang in my chest, that I’ve since chalked up to heartburn, when I realized they were the same ones he’d once said were his favorite.

  When we were dating.

  Which you no longer are.

  So, this is my life now. Playing juvenile pranks on and fighting with the man I dated for less than a month. The one I’d been rapidly descending into utter madness for. Thank God I pulled myself out of that natural disaster waiting to happen, right?

  Shit, girl, you were sunk like the Titanic for him, and you know it.

  In case you were wondering, yes. The demon slut is still alive and well.

  And she’s eating up this whole living situation like a greedy little glutton.

  “I established those rules for a reason,” I say through clenched teeth. “So that we can both come out of this without attempted murder charges on our records.”

  He clutches his chest sarcastically. “Stop, please. My heart isn’t equipped to handle so much sweet-talk.”

  “Wait until you hear my sour.”

  If I’m not mistaken, his pupils dilate the tiniest degree right before his eyes dart away.

  That’s the problem with this constant ribbing and bickering. Our fighting almost feels like foreplay, and it’s confusing the hell out of me.

  The first week into our lease, I stayed at my friend Gretchen’s place, doing all I could to prolong having to face the music. The second week, after I officially moved in, we avoided each other at all costs, barely even acknowledging the other’s existence. Now that we’re on the third week, it feels as if we have to finally interact.

  And interact we have.

  If viciously ripping into each other like The Predator counts as interaction.

  All I can say is, thank God we signed a lease on a place with two bedrooms. Because there is no flipping way I would survive this hellish nightmare otherwise. As it is, we decided to treat this just like any other roommate situation. Or at least, I decided.

  Hence the rules.

  And hence the coming-to-Jesus talk we had the first night I moved all my stuff in. After I waltzed through the front door and had to wade through demolition-level destruction just to get to my bedroom. After tip-toeing around the fourth randomly strewn size thirteen tennis shoe, I put my size seven down and decreed the rules of the house.

  “Well, in the spirit of your rules, princess,”—he grins proudly when my gaze sharpens on him—“I should let you know that I’m having some friends over to watch the Braves game tomorrow night.”

  Rule number four: let me know before you have guests over. So I can preferably stay the hell away or deadbolt myself inside my bedroom all night.

  “You plan on violating rule number seven?” I ask with a raised eyebrow.

  Rule number seven: no loud noises after midnight on weekdays.

  He lifts a careless shoulder. “It’s on the agenda. But I’m not sure we’ll have time to get to it after the beer pong tournament we’re hosting and the kegger to follow.” He snaps his fingers. “Shit, and we ordered that stripper.”

  “Charming.”

  “Thank you. I’ve been working on it.”

  “Practice harder.” I dip my chin in a way that both warns and hopefully strikes fear into him. “I’ll only say this once: if any of them so much as breathes on my Doritos, they’ll never see their balls again.”

  His mouth twitches in the beginning of a smile, but he forces it back. “The first step in conquering addiction is admitting you have a problem. You might want to address that, princess.”

  My mouth tightens. “If I were you, I’d start wearing a cup around here, too.”

  “And I’m the charming one.”

  With a withering sigh, I scoot off the bed and stand to face him. “I’d planned on doing some work from home tomorrow night. I’ll try not to interrupt your boys night in.”

  I inwardly cringe at my description of this place. But technically, this is my home for the foreseeable future. This quaint, two-bedroom house in Charleston’s Westside residential area.

  With West Devereaux.

  Ex-boyfriend, helicopter pilot, irredeemable smartass extraordinaire.

  You forgot sexiest man you’ve ever encountered.

  “You could always join us,” said smartass suggests. “I know how much you love watching sports.”

  Yeah, with my father whenever I’m seeking his approval.

  Since it was clear from an early age that I’d never be coordinated enough to actually be skilled at any sporting activity, I focused on learning everything about them instead. So that my political attaché father would have a reason to stick around the house and spend time with his second daughter, who was supposed to be a son. A son he never got.

  But watching games with my disappointed father is nothing like watching baseball with the guy I was having sex with only three weeks ago and his buddies.

  “Why would I want to watch the Braves—who suck—tomorrow night when the Yankees don’t play until Wednesday?”

  More mouth twitching, but still no smiling. “Bandwagoner.”

  “Says every sore loser ever.”

  A curtain of silence falls over the room, unnerving me. We haven’t been alone in such close quarters like this since the breakup. And I didn’t realize until this moment how extremely unprepared I’ve been for it.

  Fighting for confidence, I break our heated eye contact and brush my hair off my face. “I’d so love to continue this battle of wits, but some of us have things to do today that require a shower first.”

  His eyes lower to my cleavage, mouth parting. I steadfastly refuse to allow that action to affect me in any way. Then he brashly lets his gaze travel over the rest of me like we’re still dating and he has the right to do such a thing.

  I hate how many tingles I still get when he does that.

  For God’s sake, have some self-respect.

  “Need any help with that?” he rasps, his eyes locked on the swell of my breasts.

  Images of our naked bodies crushed together in the shower assault me. Him kneeling before me. My head bobbing between his legs. Water sluicing over his ripped abdominals. His roars of pleasure echoing off the tiled walls as he comes. Unfortunately, those images aren’t fantasies. They’re memories. Which are so much harder to dismiss.

  Maddeningly, my mouth goes dry, but I still manage to push words out. “I think the days of you helping me with anything in the shower are ancient history.”

  His eyes shoot up to mine. “Careful, princess. You just broke your own rule.”

  My pulse spikes.

  We have another heady standoff where the residual lust that still simmers between us but is never addressed crackles in the air like fire embers. I know I need to say something—anything—to get him out of my room before we foolishly reacquaint our tangled bodies with a bed, but I’m coming up with a big, fat zero.

  This, right here, is why I’m being so damn strict about the rules.

  Because I honestly don’t think I’m strong enough to resist the temptation that is West.

  Despite how we broke up—how furious he made me when we fought that night, when he said things that still linger at the forefront of my memory—I still want this man. Like, bad want him. Which has nothing to do with feelings or emotions. It’s all due to our forced proximity and the flames of our former physical connection that have yet to be completely doused.

  After all, it’s not like his looks have changed in the three weeks since
we broke up, as much as I prayed for a miracle that they would. I can’t make my body flip a switch and not find him objectively attractive just like that. The arousal that attraction inflicts is a pain in the ass, but it’s manageable as long as I don’t dwell on it.

  Or stare at him too long.

  And maybe I have a bit of a devious streak in me because I’ve kind of been shoving my body in his face at every opportunity. Not that I should give a crap what he thinks about my appearance since we’re no longer together, but there’s still my pride to consider. Which is what I was protecting when I quickly checked myself over in the full-length mirror just before he marched down the hallway and blew into my room.

  It was pride that had me checking that my hair was still falling in its neat waves, that my makeup hadn’t faded, and that my boobs were supported nicely in my sports bra and peeking out the top of my workout tank. I may have also glanced back over my shoulder to see how my ass looked in these spandex pants. But again, that was pride.

  It had nothing to do with reminding him of what he’s missing out on.

  Okay, maybe a teensy bit.

  “You going to camp out in here all day?” I ask, hands on my hips. “If so, you could have at least brought marshmallows with you.”

  Tension broken, he snorts in laughter and walks backwards through the open doorway. “Holler if you need help with any of those hard to reach places.”

  Then he’s gone.

  And I’m left reeling.

  You stupid, stupid fool! You know rule number six is the most important one of all.

  Rule number six: there will absolutely, unequivocally be no mention of our past relationship.

  I made that one easy to remember.

  Six is one letter away from sex.

  Which is the one thing I will definitely not be getting any of for the next five and a half months.

  At least, not with West Devereaux.

  “It sounds like you and the new roomie are getting along like two peas in a pod,” my ex-stepsister Quinn mutters dryly from the fitting room next to mine.

  “It actually kind of sounds like they’re still dating,” Sloane throws out on a laugh from the fitting room on my other side.

  “I still don’t see why it would be such a hardship to install cameras all over that house,” Gretchen calls out from the fitting room’s sitting area. “If the two of you are squabbling as much as you say, Netflix would pay good money to give viewers a front row seat to that action. Exes to Enemies. It could start a whole new wave of reality television.”

  I shake my head, grinning.

  Gretchen, the most business-savvy of the four of us, is always looking for a money-making angle. Working in the advertising industry, I suppose it’s become ingrained in her.

  “Yeah, because that’s what I need,” I huff, examining myself in the full-length mirror. “More people to witness my shame and humiliation.”

  “Hey, it sells,” Gretchen retorts. “Besides, haven’t you heard? Americans are shameless. How do you think anyone even gets famous these days?”

  “I think I’ll pass on infamy, thanks.” Glancing over my shoulder one last time, I step out of my fitting room to face my team of judges. “All right, verdicts on this one.”

  Quinn’s and Sloane’s doors open simultaneously. They step out in their gowns of choice to model, even though they’re really only here to help find me a dress. But apparently, shopping for an actual wedding dress in this shop comes with champagne service, as the spritely store associate informed us when we traipsed in earlier.

  Which is why Gretchen currently looks like a cake topper.

  Sprawled out on the chaise in the sitting area, champagne flute in hand, her poufy white ensemble cushioning her like a fluffy cloud, she assesses my latest dress with a shrewd, silver eye. She happily volunteered to play the part of the bride, claiming it was the most ironic because Gods knows when she’ll ever get married. Her words, not mine.

  Flinging her long veil over the arm of the chaise, her thick, dark brown wavy hair going with it, she inspects my royal blue dress. “Eh, it’s not my favorite.”

  Sloane scrunches her nose in my direction. “I agree. The square neckline doesn’t work on you. You need something that elongates your neck.”

  “P.S., shoot me if I ever try to wear yellow in public,” Quinn spits out as she twirls around in her pale-yellow frock in front of the three-way mirror. “God, how can women actually be cruel enough to force their bridesmaids to wear something this hideous?”

  Being the most petite one of us, she looks like a perky little fairy in the flowy sunny dress. Her shoulder-length brown hair is cut in her preferred choppy, almost messy style. Her giant brown eyes have always reminded me of a baby lemur’s, they’re so round. And I mean that in the best way possible because the girl has always been gorgeous. She might be short and petite, but she has the kind of muscle tone that comes from years of working with her horses, so she’s not frail by any stretch of the imagination.

  “Yo, focus,” I scold her. “Me. Annual Foundation Gala. Dress. Now.”

  Quinn barely spares me a glance in the mirror’s reflection. “Sloane’s right. No square neckline. And no blue. Even with your blond hair and complexion it’s just not…show-stopping enough.”

  I scowl. “I don’t want to stop any show. The less attention I draw to myself at this thing, the better.”

  The Charleston Society Foundation’s Annual Gala is sort of like the Academy Awards for the upper echelons of Charleston’s wealthy and well-connected. It’s a way of patting the rich and powerful on the back and handing them awards for all their “generous service to the community.” And to make them feel even better about themselves, they usually make a large charitable donation to some local business, institution, or organization at the end of the evening.

  Ultimately, it’s a night for city officials to perform their compulsory ass-kissing of their many donors. For the attendees, it’s merely become an excuse to get dressed up…and liquored up.

  As both a member and a prisoner—excuse me—an employee of the Foundation, I’m obligated to attend.

  And as my mother’s daughter, I’m all but forced to.

  Eleanor St. Clair is basically the Foundation’s queen bee. She informally runs it, along with several other local organizations. She also has a seat on the city’s Executive Board, which is essentially like the presidential cabinet. I actually wouldn’t be surprised if she has more powers than the mayor at this point. Just like her mother before her, she started her journey at the Foundation, as my older sister Violet has done, and as she expects me to. Call it the avenue to high society.

  I call it the place where souls go to die.

  “Doesn’t mean you can’t look hot and fuckable while you avoid all the schmucks in the room,” Gretchen argues, taking a sip/gulp of champagne. “Try the red one on.”

  Sloane claps excitedly in her black, floor-length gown. With her pale skin, jet-black hair, and ridiculously bright blue eyes, she’s always reminded me of a long-haired Snow White. The only other difference between her and the beloved cartoon character? She’s got the breasts of a porn star that are amazingly, completely natural.

  “Ooo, yes!” top-heavy Snow White exclaims. “The cut of the red one looked perfect for you.”

  I roll my eyes and trudge back into the room. “All right. But I’ve already told you, red’s never been my thing.”

  As much as I like the bright color, it’s too…sensual siren. Too brakes-slamming, tires-screeching, eyes-bulging type of sultry. A standout color like that sends all the wrong messages.

  Is that you or your mother talking?

  Of course, the demon slut would side with the red dress. It’s vixen-esque and just her style.

  After closing the fitting room door, I work the side zipper of the blue dress down and reach for the strapless red confection.

  “Speaking of co-habitating, Sloanie bear,” Gretchen speaks up, “how’s plantation life with Coun
selor Carter going?”

  I hear glasses being filled with more bubbly, followed by Sloane’s contented sigh. “I feel like I barely get any sleep these days. It’s amazing.”

  “If only all men treated sex like another hobby,” Gretchen murmurs wistfully. “Think about it. If they put as much focus and energy into sex as they do video games or watching sports or working out, no woman on the planet would be unsatisfied.”

  Glasses clink. “Hear, hear.”

  Quinn scoffs. “For real. Yet they expect us to have the skills of a porn star. It’s like, I’m sorry I don’t have the mouth of a Hoover, but would you rather me be so experienced sucking dick that I’m bored with yours? Men want a slut in the oral sense. But in any other area, it’s unacceptable. If you know more than they do in bed, you’re a whore. If you’re a virgin, you must be a prude. If you’re a more experienced girl, you’re tainted. Pick a damn lane, dudes.”

  I pause my movements when the sitting area falls into silence.

  “Sorry, did that get a little personal?”

  “Just a tad,” Sloane mutters.

  Everyone bursts into laughter.

  They continue having their own conversation about Sloane’s living situation with her attorney-turned-beau, whom she met the day she got divorced from her ex-husband. Hearing about her newfound happiness inevitably sends me spiraling, recalling how happy I thought I was up until three weeks ago.

  When West basically said I have horrible taste in friends.

  No, no. Put your knives away, ladies.

  He hadn’t been talking about these friends.

  In fact, West and my three best girls pretty much had each other at hello. There had been a blissfully easy comradery between them that’s rare to find among best friends and boyfriends.

  He’d been talking about my other best friend.