I shove my phone into my backpack and promise myself I'll deal with this after class.
On my way out the door, I check the mailbox. No sign of my acceptance or rejection letter from the UCLA teaching program, but it's not due for another week.
My Finance 301 class is dull. My attention drifts to the browser open on my laptop. I can browse apartment listings and take notes at the same time.
That checks out.
There are about fifty rooms for rent in my neighborhood. Narrowing my price range knocks me down to a dozen options. Over half the available rooms come with a cat or dog. Those are out—I'm allergic to just about any animal with fur or feathers. Down to four. All of them use the words "open-minded roommate required" in the posting.
No way in hell that's happening.
Drew is my best option. Living with him is possible. So I'm attracted to him, so what? He's hotter than the molten center of the Earth. Of course my body reacts to his. And to his words and his voice and the way his cheeks crinkle when he smiles.
It's such a nice smile.
Okay. It’s more than a crush. I’m fucking crazy about him. But I can't let that get in the way of a perfectly good living arrangement. Not when it's my best option.
I give myself until eleven p.m. to come up with another idea, but there isn't one. I'm going to live with Drew and I'm going to survive it.
I take a deep breath as I tap my reply.
Kara: Okay. Let's do it. Let's pick out an apartment together.
One minute later, my phone rings. Drew.
I pick up. "Why can't you text like a normal person?"
"You can't gloat in a text." His voice is cocky. "I'm glad you saw the light."
"It's not too late to change my mind."
"You won't."
"Goodnight, Drew."
His voice softens. "Sweet dreams."
I turn off my phone. This crush isn’t going to kill me.
In theory.
***
Tuesday night, I go straight from my internship to the first potential apartment. Drew is leaning against the wall, picture perfect effortless rock star. His short, black hair is messy. His t-shirt hangs off his shoulders just so. Once again, it's cut just low enough to show a hint of ink.
What would it feel like to trace the lines of that tattoo?
Not that I want to touch him like that.
Not that I'm going insane thinking about touching him like that.
Not at all.
My blouse tugs against my chest. The top button threatens to come undone. I'm not sure what possessed me to buy a blouse with buttons. They never get along with my boobs.
I adjust the shoulders so the blouse rides a little higher, but that only sends the strain to the next button down.
We hug hello. His eyes pass over me. It's a quick thing, like he's taking in my outfit.
"I can't believe I've never seen you in professional mode," he says.
"One of us needs to class up the place."
Drew nods to the apartment. I follow him up the stone staircase, to the second floor. Drew checks his phone and punches a code into a keybox. Success. He grabs a key and slides it into the lock.
He pushes the door open for me. "After you."
The room is nice but small. Beige carpet. Tiny rectangular windows. Cramped little kitchen.
Drew's hand brushes against my lower back. He nods to the one bedroom at the end of the tiny hallway.
"It's not bad," I say.
"It's a dump." He steps inside the bedroom. "But useful for comparisons."
"You're playing loose and fast with 'dump' for someone who lives on a tour bus."
"That bus is a dump," he says. "It's just for the road. We stay in hotels most nights."
"You're so fancy."
It is a small room. More carpet. Another rectangular window. A mirrored closet door.
He positions himself in front of the mirror and stares at his reflection. "I don't see it." He reaches for me and pulls me next to him, so we're both in the reflection. "I still don't see it."
He's too close. It feels too good.
I take a step back. "It's a little small."
He pulls his phone from his pocket and checks the time. "We're meeting another landlord in twenty minutes. Bigger place. Closer to UCLA."
It sounds perfect, but there's apprehension on his face.
"What's the problem?" I ask.
"Let's make a deal. You pay the same rent you were paying at your old place. I pay the rest."
"No way in hell. I'm paying half."
"Twice the rent you're paying gets you someplace like this." He nods to the peeling paint in the corner.
"You're not paying for me."
"Not for you. Just more than fifty percent. Consider it a fee for getting to make the final decision."
I throw him my best side-eye.
He cocks his eyebrow and folds his arms over his chest. "Kara."
"Yeah?"
"Your top button is undone." He smirks.
I look at my blouse. Dammit. He's right. I fix the button but it won't stay done.
Drew laughs. "I like it better that way."
I will not blush. I will not blush. Dammit, I will not blush! I clear my throat. "How much more than fifty percent are we talking?"
"It's not a lot of money to me." He takes a step toward me and brushes a stray hair behind my ear. "You'd be doing me a favor."
"You're so full of shit."
He grabs my wrist and moves toward the exit. "I'm going to get my way."
"You always do."
***
No way in hell.
This is not an apartment for a college student. The penthouse of a luxury condo is more appropriate for a movie star than a finance and literature double major.
This place must be two thousand square feet. Every wall is glass. The kitchen is stainless steel with quartz countertops. The balcony stretches on forever.
Drew looks at me. "There's a pool on the roof."
"No," I say.
"Should I prove it?"
"I can't live here. The rent probably costs more than my car."
"Your car is ancient."
I fold my arms.
Drew walks across the long living room. He opens a sliding door and steps onto the balcony. Even on this floor, it's loud. Wilshire is jammed and there's enough honking to prove it. The smell of gasoline and exhaust drifts into the room. Oh, Los Angeles, you really have a unique charm.
The wind whips Drew's hair and t-shirt. He turns and motions come here.
I stay put. "This place is not us."
"What's us?"
"Don't you want to live in Hollywood?" I ask.
"So I can hit the clubs every night with Tom? No." His eyes find mine. "I want to live with you."
He steps inside, closing the door behind him. Instantly, the room is quiet. It's too quiet, actually. I can hear my racing heartbeat.
I clear my throat. "I hate Westwood."
"It's half a mile from UCLA."
"It's a clusterfuck. And all the people here are stuck up."
Drew raises an eyebrow. "You better watch yourself, Kendrick. Might offend someone."
"You're very down-to-earth. For a rock star." My blouse strains as I inhale. I adjust my purse so it's covering my chest. "Is there another option?"
Drew smiles. "Of course." He takes my hand. "And it's perfect."
***
The landlord looks at me like we're cut from the same cloth. She's a lot like my mom—thin, impeccably groomed, wearing only the finest business casual attire. We shake hands. She says her name but it goes in one ear and out the other.
She turns to Drew with significantly less positivity. He's in skinny jeans and a t-shirt. I'm in my work getup. It looks like I'm the one with the job and the money and he's my handsome but useless trophy boyfriend.
"Aren't you a nice couple?" She smiles. "Will this be your first time living together?"
Drew
nods. He doesn't correct her.
This place isn't an apartment at all. It's a single-family house. Cozy, but plenty of room for two.
We follow the landlord up a small stone path. The yard is all drought-tolerant plants—cacti and succulents surrounded by grey and white pebbles.
This place is at least twice the size of my current place. The main room stretches on forever. It has clean hardwood floors. The kitchen has an island. There's room for half a dozen mixing bowls and baking pans. There's room for fifteen coffee makers. I'm in love with the idea and I don't even drink coffee.
The landlord points to the stairs. "There are two bedrooms. You could use one room as an office. Or as a nursery. When the time comes."
Drew throws me a look. "Yeah, honey. It would make a nice nursery."
Two can play this game. "It's so nice that you want to be a stay-at-home dad, so my career can come first."
He raises his eyebrow really?
I nod. Sure, why not.
"Kara, sweetie, you know you always come first."
The landlord stares at us like we're crazy.
I press my palm against the sliding glass door to the backyard. There's a pool out there. It glows under the dark sky like a beacon of hope. It's practically screaming this is the best place you will ever live and the only chance you'll ever have to go swimming without a panic attack.
"Where do you work, Ms.—" she trails off.
"Kara is fine." I turn back to the rest of the house. It's huge. It's massive. It's perfect. "At Giffin Industries. I'm also a student."
"And you, Mr. Denton?"
He winks at me. "I'm in a band."
All that positivity falls right off her face. He's in a band. Talk about a loser who can't afford to pay the rent.
"We have to do a credit check. And we'll need some proof of employment. Our usual rule is that a couple needs to be making three times the rent before tax."
Drew cocks his eyebrows. He makes eye contact with me and smiles. It's like he's saying watch this.
He turns to her. "How about we skip all that and take a look at my Mint account."
He pulls his phone from his pocket. A few taps and he flashes the screen to the real estate agent. I can't see what's on display, but it must be a lot, because her frown turns right upside down.
Drew is no longer a penniless loser.
He has money now. He's worthy of her attention now. Never mind that he was always worthy of attention. Even before he was hotter than the sun. Even before he had enough money to rent a place like this.
I bite my lip. No reason to get upset with this woman for doing her job. It's not like she invented capitalism.
"I'd like to sign the lease now," he says. "Before my... Kara changes her mind about me."
The woman laughs like she doesn't consider this a possibility. After all, who changes her mind about the rich, hot rock star?
"I have a copy in my car," she says. "Feel free to look around the place."
Drew nods. He waits until she leaves to pull the sliding door open and step into the backyard.
"We never got the chance to go swimming at Miles's place," he says.
"And you're going to get naked, jump into the pool, and get dressed by the time she's back with the lease?"
Drew smirks. "She'll still approve us if I'm naked in the pool." He turns back to me. "If anything, it will help our case."
My body buzzes. He offers his hand like he's beckoning me to follow him.
I shake my head.
"You used to be brave, Kendrick."
"Shove a sock in it." I move toward the stairs. "I'm checking out the bedrooms."
I turn so he won't see my face flush. Heat spreads through me. It calls all of my attention. It's like dancing. I'm acutely aware of every part of my body. Every sensation, every muscle, every stretch or strain.
Drew follows me up the stairs. He grabs my hand and jumps into the lead, pulling me into one of the upstairs bedrooms.
It's about average for Southern California. Cozy but not tiny. There's room for a bed, a desk, a dresser, and just enough empty space for floor work.
Drew takes in my expression. "You like it."
"Good thing since you already agreed to sign the lease."
He shrugs like he knew this would happen. His hand intertwines with mine and he leads me to the other bedroom.
The master bedroom. It's bigger and it has a mirrored closet door.
Drew stands next to me and stares at his reflection. We make a strange pair—me busting out of my blouse and skirt and him exuding effortless charisma in his perfectly fitted jeans and t-shirt. It's not that I don't hold up to him. It's just, right now, we look like opposites. My dark brown hair is in a tight bun. His black locks are hanging in his eyes. My outfit is light and neutral. His is dark and bold. I'm all soft, round curves. He's all hard lines.
Don't get me wrong. I'm decent looking. I may not be as thin as my mother is, but I'm just as good with my hair, makeup, and wardrobe. I work with what I've got. Cobalt eyeliner to bring out my brown eyes. A cinched waistline to play up my curvy frame. Three-inch heels to give me enough height to make eye contact without craning my neck.
But Drew is in a whole other tier. Even when he's trying to keep out of the spotlight, he stands out. Girls flock to him and he bats them away like it's nothing.
"How do you want to settle this?" he asks.
I shoot him a quizzical look.
"This is clearly the superior room. I'm willing to let you have it, but not without a fight."
"You can have it," I say. "Since you'll be paying—" I look around the room again. It looks outrageously expensive. "Ninety percent of the rent or something."
He frowns. "I don't want to hear anything like that again. We're equals here."
"But you're paying—"
"I don't care. Everything is even between us." He folds his arms across his chest. "Deal?"
I nod. "Okay, deal."
"How about we flip for it?"
"There must be a better way."
He pulls his wallet from his pocket and takes out a quarter. "Can you name one?"
Actually, I can't. I nod, okay, fine. We'll flip for it. "You flip. I'll call it in the air."
He nods. He places the coin over his thumb. Flip. It spins in the air.
"Head. Heads," I say.
And now my mind is right in the gutter.
Drew catches the coin in his palm. He makes eye contact and raises an eyebrow. He looks down at the coin then holds his palm out so I can see it too. "Head it is."
I clear my throat. "Great."
"Head is great."
"Shut up."
He shrugs like he doesn't know what I'm talking about.
CHAPTER FIVE
Drew: Kendrick, I have a thought.
The buzz of my phone lulls me out of my finance class-induced boredom. I check to make sure the coast is clear. There are only twenty people and I'm right in the professor's eyeline.
I wait until he turns back to his PowerPoint presentation and tap a reply.
Kara: Don't leave me waiting in breathless suspense.
Drew: That's awfully poetic for a text.
Kara: Maybe I should be the one who writes Sinful Serenade's lyrics.
Drew: You better not let Miles hear that.
Kara: Miles should be more concerned about what he makes me hear.
Drew: You didn't like the free audio porn?
Kara: No.
Drew: We'll get him back eventually.
The person next to me clears her throat. And here I thought we all outgrew being the teacher's pet in third grade.
I drop my phone in my lap so it's out of view. It buzzes again.
Holy shit.
It's right between my legs. It's pressed up against my clit. That buzz is so...
I bite my lip so I won't react. This is so not the place. I try to grab the phone but it buzzes again.
The teacher's pet scowls at me. She shake
s her head like she finds me distasteful. I mouth sorry. There. I shove the still buzzing phone in my purse.
The professor turns back to the class. He's looking right at me. I grab my pen and dutifully copy the notes from the slide. Eyes on the paper. I'm totally paying attention. I'm in college. Of course, I'm paying attention. It's not like I don't understand anything in my finance classes. It's not like I absolutely loathe my major and the plan my mom has set out for me: joining her company after I graduate.
I look around the room. The professor is lost in his dull lecture. The teacher's pet is lost in her obscenely neat notes.
Under my chair, my entire purse vibrates. I better turn the thing off. That story checks out. It's not like I'm grabbing it so I can reply to Drew's texts. Not at all.
Drew: What are you doing tonight?
Drew: I hope nothing, because we need to pick out furniture.
Drew: I'll pick you up at 7:30. Your place.
***
Drew plucks a vase from a wooden shelf. He stares at it like he can't understand its mystical and magical powers. It's a vase. It decorates and holds flowers. There's nothing to understand.
He moves to a tiny table. It only seats two and it looks wobbly as all hell. He slides into one of the rickety wood laminate seats and picks up the plastic glass that's sitting on the table.
"Do you see yourself drinking coffee here?" he asks.
"I don't drink coffee."
He motions for me to take the other seat. I fight my desire to roll my eyes but I comply. There's something magnetic about Drew. I can't say no to him.
He presses his palms against the table and leans toward me. He's a foot away maybe and he's looking at me.
I clear my throat and lean back in the chair. "Are you really staying long enough to invest in furniture?"
"That's the plan."
"Not going to get sick of fame and quit the band?" I bring my attention to the floor. It's hardwood. Long, thin planks in this tan color. They're beaten and waxed to hell.
"Say I did. Where would I go?" He pushes himself up. "I have everything I want here."
"And what is that?"
"Sunshine. The beach." He stares right into my eyes. "I have this friend. But she's about to graduate college and move far, far away for some amazing opportunity."
"How do you know she's competent?"
Strum Your Heart Out (Sinful Serenade #2) Page 3
