Page 4 of Dear Roomie (Classic City Romance #1)

James

T he door slams behind me, and all of the fight leaves my body. The armor of self-righteous indignation crumbles away, letting loose the raw panic that had been locked away underneath.

What the actual fuck did I just do? In what world is provoking a strange man behind closed doors a good idea? I’m lucky Morgan responded the way he did instead of with anger or violence. Things could have gone so much worse, and for what? My own ego?

I’m such a fucking idiot.

My heart grows erratic, and my breath comes in shallow gasps as panic claws its way through me, tearing through my carefully constructed walls with ease.

I stumble toward the bathroom and run through one of my coping strategies.

Ten…

Nine…

Eight…

Seven…

Six…

Five…

Four…

Three…

Two…

One…

Breathe .

I repeat the process, but it does nothing to calm the raging beast inside me.

My body functions on autopilot as I cross the threshold into the Jack and Jill bathroom and ensure both doors are locked.

White-knuckling the countertop’s edge, I stare into the mirror.

The girl who stares back with wild green eyes looks like a feral animal caught in a hunter’s snare.

I don’t recognize her; the woman struggling for air while she clings to the counter is an impostor wearing my skin.

I start my count again, but it’s apparent that it isn’t enough to leash the panic. With shaking hands, I reach for one of the drawers and dig out my emergency medication.

“Goddamnit, James, pull yourself together,” I hiss at my reflection and swallow back the tiny white pills. “You are going to shower, call your dad, make dinner, and act like a civil human being. It’s only temporary. Dad will fix everything, and you won’t ever have to think about Morgan Hall again.”

I push away from the counter and turn the shower on to the hottest setting. After waiting a few moments, I step under the scalding spray. The water singes my skin, and the pain centers me, giving me something to focus on while I wait for my meds to kick in.

Feeling more composed, I turn the water off and head back to my room. I start to throw on my normal house clothes—an oversized T-shirt and athletic shorts—but think about Morgan and his stupid outfit and pause. Who wears business casual to move, anyway?

Fuck him .

I won’t let him or his pretentious judgment dictate how I live in my own home. That’s the lie I tell myself, at least, but I tuck the clothes back into my drawers and opt for a pair of jeans and a nicer tank top instead.

I check the time and grab my phone to call my dad. It’s six hours later where he is stationed, and it’s already pushing the “too late to call” point for the night.

“Hello.” The familiar drawl of his voice comes through the line after a few rings. Hearing it is a balm, soothing all my worries. He sounds groggy; normally, I would feel guilty about calling him this late and waking him up, but any guilt is overshadowed by relief.

“Hi, Dad.” My voice cracks as my emotions threaten to spill out.

“Ophelia, what’s wrong? Are you all right,” he asks, sounding more awake.

“I’m fine,” I lie, which earns me a disapproving hum. I’ve never been able to hide anything from him.

“Okay, I’m not fine,” I amend with a sigh. “I met my new roommate today, and there is a pretty big problem.”

“What kind of problem?” His voice takes on a protective edge.

“Morgan is actually a man.” I drop the bomb and brace for my father’s reaction.

“Okay, and?” he questions without a trace of the validating anger I hoped to hear.

“I am a woman who will be living alone with a guy she doesn’t even know. It isn’t safe.”

“All right, if this is an issue for you, I can call the leasing office tomorrow and break your lease. It will probably be difficult to find somewhere else for you on this short notice, but I’m sure we can find something.”

“No, I’m not moving. I want him out of my apartment.” The idea that I would be the one to move is outlandish. I was here first. I’ve lived here for three years, and I’m not about to move because some asshole didn’t tell me he had a penis.

“Is his name on the lease?” His voice carries the same tone that has always meant I’m not getting what I want.

“Yes,” I admit with a pout he can’t see.

“Has he done anything to violate the terms of the lease?”

“No, but—”

“There are no buts,” he interrupts me, using his drill-sergeant tone.

“You are out of luck, kid. This boy signed a lease and is legally in his rights to live in that apartment. The way I see it, you’ve got two options here: move out or suck it up and try to make the best of the situation.

If you genuinely feel unsafe, I will get you out of there tonight.

We can get you a hotel room, and you won’t have to see him again.

It’s your call here, kid. I’ll support you in whatever you choose, but forcibly removing a paying tenant isn’t on the table. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” I grumble.

“Good. Do you feel like you are in any danger?”

I think about it for a moment before begrudgingly admitting, “No.”

“Okay then, think over your options, and let me know what you want to do in the morning. It’s past one in the morning here—”

A loud crash from the room next door distracts me from whatever my dad is saying.

“Hey, I’ve gotta go,” I cut in. “I love you, Dad.”

“Love you too, kid,” he says, and the line goes dead.

I dash back into the bathroom and push the door to the other bedroom open without knocking.

My roommate is sprawled on the floor, surrounded by boxes that have been strewn about in haphazard heaps.

There aren’t many of them, and there’s no furniture, but those things are probably still in his moving van.

He lets out a groan of pain, summoning me to his side in an instant. Alarms blare through my head as he stares up at the ceiling with dazed eyes.

“What the fuck? Are you okay?” I crouch beside him to get a better look. He looks fine, from what I can tell, except that his glasses are skewed. I hadn’t noticed before, but the eyes behind them are hazel, shining almost amber in the light.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he says as he sits up, but the strain in his voice tells another story.

It only takes a second for me to figure out why.

A small television broke his fall, its sharp plastic corners lining up perfectly with his spine.

He notices it too, and his face falls. He scrambles around on his hands and knees to stand the TV up and plugs it into the wall.

Muttering something under his breath, he clicks the power button.

The screen flashes to life, but the display is nothing more than a black-and-white web of destroyed pixels.

That isn’t what catches my attention, though.

A small patch of blood, which is growing as the seconds pass, stains his white dress shirt.

“Fuck.”

“Yeah,” he sighs as his shoulders sag. “It’s definitely broken.”

“No, Morgan, ‘fuck’ as in you’re bleeding,” I snap.

He cranes his head to see the spreading stain, and his expression falls even further. The dejected look on his face pulls at something in my heart. There is no way I can leave him here when he looks this sad. It would be cruel, like kicking a puppy.

“Come here.” I grab his arm to pull him to his feet and then guide him to the bathroom. He follows without protest, but his brows are pinched in obvious confusion.

“Sit,” I command, directing him to the lid of the toilet. “Take your shirt off.”

He does what I ask while I grab the first aid kit from under the sink.

I turn back around and find him straddling the toilet seat with his back to me.

For a brief moment, I’m caught off guard by how sculpted the muscles there are—it’s the last thing I expected to see underneath the geeky, try-hard attire—but the oozing cut near his spine quickly draws my full attention.

“Let me look.” I kneel behind him and run my hand over the bruising skin. My fingertips tingle from the warmth radiating off him; it’s almost electric. He lets out a soft hiss at the contact, and I jerk my hand away. “I’m sorry, did I hurt you?”

“No, I’m fine,” he says through clenched teeth. “What’s the verdict, doc?”

I choke back a snort of laughter. “I’m no doctor, but I don’t think you’ll need stitches. I do want to clean and bandage it, though. If that’s all right.”

All at once, I’m aware of how inappropriate I’m being. I barged in and forced him to get half naked while I ran my hands all over his body .

What the fuck, James?

My cheeks grow hot as my embarrassment floods through me. I clean and dress his wound as quickly as I can while still making sure things are done right.

“There, good as new,” I tell him, pulling away.

He turns to face me and gives me a heart-stopping smile. It’s not perfectly symmetrical—one side pulls higher, and only his left cheek dips with a pronounced dimple—but those imperfections only make him more attractive. Because, holy fuck, Morgan Hall is attractive.

“Thank you, James,” he tells me, his voice dripping with sincerity.

“I—uh—I’m gonna go make dinner,” I stammer, growing more flustered. “You can join me if you want…I’m making tacos.”

I don’t wait for him to respond as I flee the confined space into the refuge of the kitchen. There isn’t much room, but I’ve meticulously organized all of the cabinets to optimize what I do have. I’ll need to teach him where things go.

Fuck, I guess he will be sticking around .

I put in my earphones, turn the volume up as loud as it will go, and dance around to the bassy rifts while I brown the beef.

A tap on my shoulder causes me to jump and my heart rate to skyrocket.

I turn around, brandishing my spatula as a weapon in one hand while I pull an earbud out with the other.

Morgan is behind me, holding his hands up in surrender with a sheepish look on his face.

“You scared the shit out of me,” I admonish.

“I’m sorry. I just wanted to see if you needed any help.”