Page 6 of Pour Decisions (Stryker Family #3)

KATRINA

Okay, I’m not at all fine.

I sigh and try to make myself small to fit in the weak, narrow spray of the gym’s shower after my morning workout.

If I had the choice, I’d shower at home, especially since the rest of the gym is surprisingly nice.

But finding another place to live has been a struggle this whole week.

It’s even worse now that it’s the weekend.

I’ve spent every free moment looking at places, and usually, there’s one massive catch to them. I’m not even being that picky, but no, I’m not going to live with a creepy old dude whose cats have a loose definition of peeing in the litter box, or in a place that looks moments from collapse.

At one point in my life I would have put up with it, but after the stress of my divorce, I’m all about convenience.

I turn off the water and wrap myself in one of my fluffy towels, the only thing making this shower tolerable. Once I dress, I check my email and my spam filter to see if any of the places I applied to have gotten back to me. None have. Not even from the places that Mom sent.

I swallow. On the upside, I have the whole day to try to find a place today. If I can’t find a place, I can just stay in my car for a little longer.

Or I could just text JD and he’ll give me whatever hookup he has for a place.

I bite my lip and search for JD’s contact in my phone. I deleted our text messages after he dumped me, but I couldn’t bring myself to delete his number.

I get back into my car and turn it on, letting it warm up. It runs well enough even though it’s not in tip-top shape. My ex had wanted to buy me a new car, but deep in my gut I knew having my name on the title would be important one day.

I adjust the knobs for my AC. The August heat is killing me and my AC is struggling to keep up.

I dick around on my phone, halfheartedly looking at Craigslist. The longer I sit, the more sweat pools under my breasts and down my neck.

“What the fuck,“ I murmur, messing with the AC again. I put my hand in front of the vent. Nothing but warm air is coming out. “Come on. Please work.”

My AC doesn’t get the picture and keeps making my car hotter.

I let my head fall back against my headrest and laugh. Of course. Of course my AC chose this moment to shit itself.

The weather here can change on a dime, but I doubt it’ll magically become cool enough to tolerate staying here, even at night.

I sigh and text JD.

Me: what’s this apartment you know of to rent?

He calls me moments later. Seeing his name on my phone screen after so long is so jarring that it takes me a second to answer.

“Hi,” I say. “I text and you call?”

“Easier this way,” he says. Obviously he hasn’t heard of voice notes, but whatever. “It’s not an apartment. It’s my house. I have an extra room.”

I blink several times. “You’re offering me a space in your house? Me, your ex-girlfriend and current physical therapist?“

He doesn’t say anything for a few moments, but I hear a dog bark in the background.

“Yes.”

“Why?” I ask.

Maybe our breakup just wasn’t a big deal for him the way it was for me.

Or he’s not as big of an asshole as I thought, but I kind of doubt it.

A guy who can go from telling you he loves you and wants you as his future to dumping you suddenly with next to no explanation in the span of a month is the definition of an asshole.

“Because you need a place to go, and as much as you probably doubt it, I’m not that big of an asshole.”

“Ugh, get out of my head.” I run my hand down my face, and it comes away damp.

“You can come take a look and see if you’ll have enough space. If you don’t feel comfortable, I can ask around if someone has a place to rent,” he says.

I bite my lip. He’s being very reasonable. And what else am I supposed to do?

“Fine,” I finally say. “I’ll come now if you’re free. “

“I’ll text you my address.”

He ends the call, and moments later, I get a text with his address. I plug it into my GPS and head over, windows open.

He doesn’t live far from where I am, but his neighborhood is tucked away into the woods, hidden from the road.

His house is the last one on the street, backing up to the tree line.

It’s a beautiful home, simple and bigger than I thought he’d have.

I park next to his shiny, high-end SUV—not the kind of car I thought he’d have either, but I'd noticed it the other day after his appointment.

By the time I’m out of my car, JD is coming out of the garage, a chocolate lab on his heels. I grin at the dog, who sees me and uses every ounce of his willpower to not rush me.

“Go ahead, Bubba,” JD says, nodding his head at me.

“Hi, Bubba!” I put my hand out to the dog and he rushes over to me to say hello. He slams his butt against me, so I give him scratches above his tail. “What a sweet boy.”

Usually most dogs I’ve met get bored of being petted after a while, but Bubba doesn’t appear to have a limit.

“Okay, buddy,” I say, stopping. Bubba looks up at me with the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen. It’s like he reached into my chest and punched my heart. “Oh no, I’m sorry.”

“He’ll have you pet him for hours. Ignore the face,” JD says, nodding toward the inside of his house. “Let me show you your room.”

“My possible room,” I say.

He glances at me over his shoulder, a dark eyebrow going up like he doesn’t believe me. The fucking nerve he has, caring all of a sudden.

The inside of his house is more intentionally decorated than I thought—masculine but almost sterile. The only hints of coziness are the blankets on one side of the living room couch and the occasional dog toy on the ground. Bubba trails behind us.

“Your house is nice,” I finally say. The silence is killing me.

“Thank you.” We reach the end of the hallway and he pushes open a door.

The room is huge, with a ton of natural light and a great view of the woods and mountains.

The massive bed takes up a good portion of it, and it’s so high that I’d probably need to pole vault into it every night.

And it smells like him, or at least the whiffs of him I’ve gotten during our sessions—warm and clean.

Hints of JD are there under the borderline anal-retentive tidiness—a thick book on the bedside table that’s either hard sci-fi or non-fiction based on his taste, dry cleaning hanging on a hook on the back of the door, a very fancy dog bed for Bubba under the window.

“Wait, is this the master bedroom?” I ask, turning around. He grunts a yes. “I can’t take your bedroom. If I take a room at all.”

“The guest room is connected to my office. It’s easier for me to stay there because I work late. There’s no door.”

I narrow my eyes at him again. Sounds like BS to me.

He nods for me to follow him again and we go one door down. This space looks like a guest bedroom, with a smaller bed. And sure enough, there’s an arched doorway that leads to a small office space. No door.

The office is the one part of the house that looks used and borderline cozy. A dog bed overflowing with toys is next to the seat, and the desk is stacked with documents.

“And there’s one bathroom at the moment,” he adds as I look around. “The master. I’m redoing the guest bathroom. Should be done in the next few weeks."

That’s not ideal. I’m not messy by any means, but sharing a bathroom might mean seeing him in a state I shouldn’t see him in.

But the house is nice. And more importantly, safer than being in my car. I can deal with some awkwardness.

“Okay, fine, but how much are you charging?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

“JD.”

“Katrina.” He leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms over his chest, the muscles in his arms popping. His forearms still have the dusting of freckles on them that I loved so much.

I sigh and focus on Bubba, who’s been trailing behind us with a rubber bone toy in his mouth.

He wags his tail when we make eye contact.

Such a sweet, chunky boy being around perpetually moody JD doesn’t quite make sense, but he does seem like he’s being spoiled.

Not that I thought JD would ever be mean to animals, but still.

“Okay, back up,” I say with a sigh. “There are so many reasons why we shouldn’t do this. Like the exes thing.”

“You can see there’s plenty of space for us to avoid each other.” His tone is bone dry. “And I’m sure we can be civil.”

“And you’re my client,” I say. “Which isn’t a good look.”

To say the least. My boss is also a Black woman, so she knows better than most that the professional standards for us aren’t exactly lenient. Living with my client who’s also my ex doesn’t scream professional.

I was the first Black woman JD dated, so he had to learn a lot about what life is like for me. He clearly still remembers, based on the understanding nod he gives.

“I can see that being complicated,” he admits. “But I live out of the way and no one has to know. Plus, this can just be a safe place until you find something else. You’re not tied into a lease. If you found a place this week, it would hardly matter.”

All of that is true. And I’d prefer to be comfortable and not take an apartment out of desperation. I like to be optimistic, but I need to be realistic too.

“Maybe…” I say, even though I’m at an eighty percent yes.

“And I know I was shitty to you back then. More than shitty, and I’m sure me saying so now doesn’t give you much closure,” he adds. “But still, I’m sorry. I just want to make sure you’re safe. And this is the one way I can do that.”

The touch of softness in his voice and in his ink-dark eyes makes me weak.

I close my eyes and take a breath through my nose.

No, I will absolutely not get a single feeling toward JD Stryker, especially over the tiniest bit of kindness and what feels like a heartfelt apology.

I don’t want to get deep into our past right now.

But I can take him up on his offer. It feels like it’s a tiny form of repentance, which I appreciate more than he probably knows.

“Fine, I’ll take it.” I swallow. “But we really need to keep things quiet until I find a new place.”

“Done.”

“Also, I’ll cook and clean or something since you don’t want my money.” His eyebrows shoot up and I hold up a hand. “Please. I can’t stay here if I don’t do something beyond the basics.”

“If you insist.” He glances out the window, where we can see the cars parked. “I can cook, but cleaning would help."

“Deal.”

“Then let me bring in your stuff.”

“I can bring in my stuff,” I say. “I’m supposed to help you with your back pain, not make it worse.”

“I can handle it,” he says. I sigh and stare at him for a few beats. “Fine. I’ll just prepare other things.”

I go outside and bring in my stuff, which doesn’t take long. As I go in and out, I spot JD going from room to room, arranging things. Finally, I bring in my last bag and put it on the floor in the master bedroom. The bed is too inviting to not flop on it, facedown.

JD appears moments later, wordlessly goes through his dresser, and starts grabbing stacks of neatly folded clothes, taking them to the other room, I’m assuming.

I roll onto my back and close my eyes, too worn out to care, as he goes back and forth.

Eventually I hear a thump on the bed and see him standing over me.

“Some fresh sheets. I put out some towels and washcloths in the bathroom. Not sure what your grocery situation is, but I made space for whatever you get. You can have anything except for the meal prep meals in the black or green containers,” he says. “Even the ice cream.”

I lift my head. “Thank you. But that’s a little extra, isn’t it? I’m just here for a little bit.”

He raises his eyebrows.

“You’re staying with me. That means I take care of you, alright? It’s the least I can do,” he says, his hand on the door frame. Against my better judgment, my heart flips in my chest.