Voices carry down the hallway. Is Lisa talking to someone? Or is it Lana? Whatever the fuck her name is, she’s either talking to someone, or she turned on the TV. I hear another woman’s voice.
Oh, shit. Is that the roommate?
I get up and drag on some boxer briefs. I hope Lauren isn’t lounging on the couch like she’s welcome to hang out for the day.
Lois? Fuck, was I drunk last night? Whatever.
Still blinking the sleep from my eyes and running a hand through my hair, I wander down the hallway and stop dead in my tracks.
Two women are sitting at the vintage kitchen table. One is my lay from last night. She’s dressed, thank god, but she’s got her legs crossed and a cup of coffee in her hand.
The second woman must be Kendra. She looks like Caleb. Brown eyes that are slightly almond-shaped. Can’t tell how tall she is, but she’s thin—maybe even willowy. Her hair, though. It’s up in this messy bun thing with all these little pieces sticking out everywhere. Did they not have a mirror wherever she woke up this morning? Jesus.
She’s staring at me with her eyebrows lifted, her mouth forming a little O. Her eyes travel down from my face to my chest. Down. Further. They reach about crotch level and snap back up to my face, wider now. I glance down at myself. I suppose I should have put on some clothes. But I’m barely fucking awake and I do not understand why the roommate is sitting in the kitchen having coffee with my random from last night. What the hell?
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t realize you had someone over. I mean, it’s fine, of course. I just wasn’t expecting…”
What does that mean, she didn’t realize I had someone over? Who does she think she’s sitting with? There isn’t a third person living here, as far as I’m aware.
And if there is, and it happens to be the girl I hooked up with last night, I’m moving out. Now.
Kendra and I both start to talk at the same time, but before we figure out who’s going to go first, her phone rings.
“Sorry, let me just check.” She picks up her phone and looks at the screen. “It’s my brother. Excuse me for a minute.”
I lean against the wall at the entrance to the kitchen and wait.
“Hey. Yeah, I’m home. Sorry, I was chatting with… What? No, I met her already. Yes, her.” Her eyes narrow and she looks at me again, then gets up and walks a short distance into the living room. Not like it matters; I can still hear her. “Wait, what? Weston? I thought… Caleb, why didn’t you—Oh.” She laughs and glances back at me again. “Oh my god, that is so funny. No, his girlfriend is here and I totally thought she was… Yeah, exactly.”
My back clenches at the word girlfriend. Lady, do not be giving this chick any ideas.
“Of course he has a girlfriend, she’s right here. Yes, he does. I just spent the last few minutes chatting with her. Lana. Yes, his girlfriend. Geez, Caleb, are you listening? Look, it’s fine, it’s just funny. But it’s cool I get to meet them both right away, because I bet she’ll be here a lot.”
I cough, my throat suddenly feeling dry and closed off. This is fucking ridiculous. Be here a lot? Oh, hell no. Lola is smiling at me, flicking her tongue across her lips. She is getting some very wrong ideas in that pretty little head of hers. I don’t care how hot she is, girlfriend is not a word in my vocabulary. Nor are words like dating or I’ll text you later. Fuck that.
Kendra’s still talking—does she ever shut up?—and what’s-her-name stands and walks over to me.
“I should probably get going,” she says, twirling a strand of platinum blond hair around a finger. “Text me later, and we can hang out again.”
I shoot a quick glare at the roommate. She’s finally hanging up her phone. “Whatever, Lisa. You have a cab coming or something?”
“It’s Lana,” she says, crossing her arms.
I shrug and walk past her into the kitchen. This scene is giving me a headache. I need some coffee.
“Are you for real right now?” Lana says.
I open three cupboards before I find a mug, then pour some coffee and glance over my shoulder. “Well, yeah. We’re kinda done here. If you were expecting me to cook you breakfast, you went home with the wrong guy last night.” Where the hell does Kendra keep the sugar? I check another cupboard and find a small white sugar dish.
Lana lets out an angry huff and stomps across the creaky floor.
“Wait, do you have a ride?” Kendra asks. “I can call you a cab if you want.”
“No, I’ll just Uber,” Lana says. She pauses at the front door. “Asshole.”
“It was nice to—” The door slams. “Meet you?”
I find cream in the fridge and pour in a splash.
“Wow, that was… interesting,” Kendra says.
I take a sip of my coffee and turn around. “What?”
“You basically just threw her out,” she says. “Do you always treat your girlfriend like that?”
“No, because I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Oh,” Kendra says, her eyes full of judgment.
For fuck’s sake. I do not need lectures from this messy-haired skinny chick. “Look, it’s a three-day weekend, so it’s my day off. I didn’t exactly get a lot of sleep last night, and your little friend-fest out here woke me up.”
“Somebody’s grumpy in the morning,” she says.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and shake my head. “I am when I should be sleeping in, and rude fucking roommates start giving me shit.”
“Maybe rude fucking roommates wouldn’t give you shit if you quit acting like a dick.”
The fuck did she just say to me? She’s got her arms crossed over her flat chest; she probably never filled out a training bra. She’s this lean little ball of sass, her head cocked to the side, one eyebrow arched.
“A dick, huh? Classy.”
She sighs and drops her arms. “Look, maybe we got off on the wrong foot. Can we start over?” She walks over to me and holds out her hand. “Hi, I’m Kendra.”
I switch my coffee cup and shake her hand. “Weston.”
“There,” she says with a smile. “That’s more like it.”
“Whatever makes you feel better, honey.” I head down the hallway toward my room. “Don’t worry, I won’t be here long. I’ll stay out of your way if you stay out of mine.”
She doesn’t reply—thank god—and I close my bedroom door behind me.
What was I thinking? This is not going to work. Moving in with a roommate was clearly a fucking mistake.
3
Kendra
The trickle of water through the coffee maker and the rain beating against the window are the only things breaking the silence. I’m getting sleepy, but I still have work to do. Hence the coffee, even though it’s getting late and I know it’s going to keep me up.
Although, that’s the point.
It’s been a week since Weston moved in and I haven’t seen much of him. Which is just as well. What an ass that guy is. He hasn’t had any more girls over, thank god. When the weekend hit, I was wondering if I’d be treated to another bleached-out blonde at my kitchen table in the morning. He wasn’t around much, but I know he slept here—alone.
I have no idea what he does when he’s not here. It’s not like he chats about his day—or about anything, for that matter. He leaves early, often before I’m up. He doesn’t seem to have a set time he comes home—it’s been anywhere from four in the afternoon to ten at night. When he’s here, he mostly retreats to his bedroom. One evening, when he’d come back earlier in the afternoon, he actually sat on the couch for a while with his tablet. He had earbuds in his ears, and hardly said a word to me.
I guess in one sense, he’s not a terrible roommate. He doesn’t make a lot of noise. He leaves his dishes in the sink sometimes, but he doesn’t eat here often enough that I’ve felt the need to say anything about it.
But it sure would be nice to share my space with someone who is at least a little bit friendly. And friendly is something
Weston Reid is not.
I blow out a breath and make my eyes focus on my screen. This edit is so much more work than I expected. My client is a new author, and the bones of this story are good, but the mechanics are a disaster. I underestimated the number of hours this would take—by a lot.
The front door opens and Weston comes in. He tosses his keys on the little table by the door and walks past without so much as a glance in my direction.
I shake my head and tighten my messy bun. I didn’t leave the house today, so I never did do anything with my hair. Or change out of my pajama pants. But oh well. It’s not like I have anyone around here to impress.
Weston comes back out a few minutes later dressed only in his underwear. Again. This guy walks around in nothing but boxer briefs all the time. I’m torn between asking him to stop—because awkward—and not asking him to stop—because holy shit. Asshole or not, he’s fabulous eye candy. His early mornings have to be due to trips to the gym because he’s in fantastic shape. Well-defined shoulders, chest, and back. Muscular arms. And abs. God, he has abs for days. He’s lean and strong, and maybe I’ll just keep my mouth shut about the underwear thing. After all, he has to live here for a few months. I’d hate for him to feel like he can’t make himself comfortable.
His eyes meet mine and I quickly look back at my screen. Damn it, he caught me staring at him. Again. I need to quit doing that. The last thing he needs is me feeding his already overinflated ego.
He opens the fridge, then comes into the living room with his tablet and a bottled water. After a quick glance at me—I’m sideways on the couch with my legs stretched out—he sits at the other end. I have to move my legs out of the way to give him room; he was about to sit on my feet.
Does he ask if I’d mind moving? Does he say thank you when I do? No, of course not. He says nothing, just starts tapping on his tablet screen, his earbuds draped around his neck.
Maybe he’d be friendlier if we got to know each other a little bit. “So, hey. How was your day?”
His gaze turns to me for half a second. “It was a day.”
“It was bad, then?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Okay…” Maybe I’ll try a different angle. “So, we never did a very good job introducing ourselves. How do you know my brother?”
“College,” he says.
I feel like I now know twice as much about Weston Reid as I did two minutes ago. “Are you a surgeon, like him?”
He still doesn’t take his eyes off his tablet, nor does he stop tapping on the screen. “I’m a surgeon, yes.”
“Do you work at Swedish?”
“No. Private practice.”
“That’s interesting.” Okay, so he’s not really looking at me, but this is the most conversation we’ve had since the Lana incident. This is good. “What kind of surgery do you do? You guys have specialties, right?”
“Plastic and reconstructive.”
“Oh, really? Like, you fix people when they’ve had a disfiguring injury or something?”
“No, mostly breast augmentations.”
My mouth hangs open for a few seconds before I realize I’m gaping at him. “Wait, you do boob jobs?”
His eyes flick over to me again. “Yep.”
“What made you decide to go in that direction?” I ask.
“Not heroic enough for you?” he asks, sounding bored.
“I’m just curious,” I say. “I like hearing people’s stories.”
“It’s profitable,” he says.
I’m not really sure what to say to that. Weston looks at boobs all day? Why does this not surprise me in the least?
“Do you like your job?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I suppose.”
“Are you good at it?” I ask, then cringe. Nice question, Kendra.
“I’m the best,” he says, without a hint of sarcasm.
Well, then. I pause for a moment, trying to think of something else to say. “Have you seen Lana again?”
“What are you doing?” he asks, finally turning to look at me.
“What do you mean?” I ask. “I’m sitting on the couch trying to have a conversation with you. It isn’t easy, you know.”
“Why?”
“Why isn’t it easy? Because you—”
“No, why are you trying to have a conversation?” he asks.
His brow is furrowed—no, it is not the least bit sexy—and I think he’s genuinely confused.
“I just figured, you know, we’re roommates,” I say. “Maybe we’d be more comfortable if we knew each other a little better.”
“I’d say you’re a little too comfortable,” he says, gesturing to my pajama pants.
I glance down at my pants—dark blue flannel with little cartoon pigs. “They’re cute.”
He arches an eyebrow at me. “They have pigs on them.”
“At least I don’t walk around in my underwear all the time.”
He snorts out a short laugh. “Thank god for that.”
My mouth drops open and I stare at him. “Excuse me?”
“And what’s up with the hair? Is that intentional, or are you just lazy about it?”
I keep gaping at him. What the fuck did he just say to me?
He shrugs. “I’m just saying, it’s not doing anything for you. If this is your usual thing, I’m not surprised you didn’t have plans over the weekend.”
“Oh my god.” I swing my legs over the side of the couch and stand up, trying not to drop my laptop in the process. “What the hell is your problem?”
“I don’t have a problem,” he says, his voice still nonchalant. He puts in his earbuds.
“You are so obnoxious,” I say, but I don’t think he can hear me. I stomp to my room and slam the door behind me. Only it doesn’t really slam, and it takes me three tries to get it to stay closed. Stupid door. The latch is loose, so it pops open all the time. So much for my dramatic exit.
I set my laptop on the bed and put my hands on my hips. I just let him chase me out of my own living room. Son of a bitch. The last thing I want to do is go back out there. He’ll probably gloat. In fact, he was probably trying to run me off the whole time so he could have the living room to himself.
Asshole.
I do have more work to do, but I’m so annoyed. I need to get out of here.
After sending Mia a quick text to see if she’s free, I change into a pair of distressed jeans and a gray sweater. I’m tempted to go out in my pajama pants, just to make a point, but I know I’ll regret it as soon as the front door closes behind me. I tug on a pair of brown ankle boots, grab my phone, and head out.
Weston doesn’t look up as I stomp past, grab my coat and purse, and leave.
“Asshole,” I mutter under my breath.
Mia answers my text while I’m the way to the coffee shop, saying she’ll meet me there. I order a latte and find us a table next to the front window.
She comes in a few minutes later and her toe catches on something only Mia could trip over. She manages to keep her feet and rolls her eyes. “Coffee,” she says, pointing to the counter.
When her coffee is ready, she comes back, latte in hand. She walks carefully, her face tense with concentration, her eyes locked on the hot liquid in her mug. When she gets to the table, she gently sets it down and lets out a long breath.
“Phew,” she says. “Sup, K-law.”
“Did you just say sup?”
She pushes her dark-rimmed glasses up her nose. “I can’t really get away with saying that out loud, can I?”
“Not quite,” I say with a laugh.
“Okay, what’s up, then?” she asks. “Why the emergency coffee session? Everything all right?”
I sit back in my seat. “Yeah, I’m just frustrated. This roommate thing…”
“What’s going on?”
“Weston is such an asshole,” I say. “He barely acknowledges I exist. When he does, he always gets in some jerkoff comment.”
“Like what?�
�
“Like making fun of my clothes or my hair,” I say. “Tonight he said he wasn’t surprised I didn’t have weekend plans if this is what I look like.”
Mia’s eyes widen. “He said… I mean… What the… How could…” She pauses and takes a breath. “He did not.”
“He did,” I say. “My hair is fine. Messy buns are a thing. How can he not know they’re a thing?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. He’s a guy?”
I touch my hair. “Anyway, my point is, he’s such a jerk. I had to get out of the house for a little bit.”
“Are you sure Caleb suggested he move in?” she asks. “Why would he even be friends with a guy like that?”
“I don’t get it either,” I say. “Maybe Weston isn’t such a dick to everyone. Maybe he hates me for some reason.”
“No one in their right mind could hate you. You’re basically the least hate-able person ever.” She picks up her mug and drips some coffee on her pants. “Ow.”
“I don’t know, maybe he’s angry or something,” I say. “He’s not like, stomping around mad. But I feel like he’s holding onto a lot of anger.”
“Hmm,” Mia says, tapping her chin. Her eyes widen. “Oh my god.”
“What?”
“I know what’s happening.”
“What are you talking about?”
A smile creeps across her face. “This is a hate-to-lovers thing.”
“What?” I ask, my voice sharp.
Mia puts up a hand. “No, I know. But hear me out. You know all the romance tropes as well as I do. Second chance, secret baby, jilted bride, forbidden love. I think they’re a lot more real than people give them credit for. It happened to me. Alex and I were totally a friends-to-lovers story. With a twist, maybe, but still. Maybe you and Weston are going to be a hate-to-lovers.”
I glare at her. “No. That’s a hard no, Mia. Not even a chance.”
She gasps. “And you’re roommates! Kendra, this is totally a thing.”
“Not a real thing, Mi. This isn’t a book.”
Cocky Roommate Page 2
