Page 5 of Roommate Wanted (Knotty #1)

Nia

Istared at the empty room in disbelief before rapidly patting my face to assure myself that I was awake.

When nothing changed, I pinched my hand.

My roommate was gone.

She was here this morning but had left by the time I got back from work.

There was no note on the fridge where we communicated. I stepped through the doorway to check the windowsill, bed and wardrobe, but there was still nothing.

No text.

No email.

No phone call and no note.

The walls were bare except for bits of Sellotape and the corners of her posters.

The sad, lumpy-looking mattress had been stripped down, and I sank onto it before realising that rent was due in ten days.

Mr Goldberg was not a forgiving person.

The fact was that London rent was astronomical, and if I lost this apartment, it would be unlikely that I could raise a deposit for another one.

I hesitated for a second before I pulled up my social media.

There was no time, and I had to find someone to replace her.

Addison had been an ideal roommate, non-intrusive because we both worked.

We had been like ships in the passing night, barely speaking and respecting each other's privacy.

There was no choice.

I quickly tapped out a roommate wanted advert.

No pets, no smoking.

Utilities are included in the rent.

Serious callers only, no weirdos need apply.

They could message me because I wasn't about to leave my number.

I took a few pictures of the room and added descriptions of the communal area.

The final task was to add the deposit and rent amount.

After checking the street's average rent, I slightly undercut the amount to get someone in quickly.

Once my post was up, I made a few paper versions to leave in the downstairs hallway and for the local shops.

My stomach rumbled in hunger, but I left the apartment armed with a roll of Sellotape to hang the wanted ads up.

My food could wait, but Mr Goldberg wouldn’t because normal people had landlords while I ended up with a slumlord.

**

While dinner was in the air fryer, I checked around the apartment to see if Addison had taken any of my things, but all the electronics were still at home, and I wasn't bothered about the smaller, less valuable items.

I flicked a button on the TV remote to access my streaming service.

My watch list had a few classics and some new series.

The need to mentally switch off after such a horrid day was essential.

I was finally out of my office clothes and in my pyjamas and fluffy slippers, with the couch ready for my ass.

Claire was a major pain in my ass.

My manager hated me, and the feeling was mutual, but since it was a silent battle, I always had to watch my back at work.

Every single working day.

She was always there with a knife aimed at my back.

I was miserable, but I needed the experience and money until I could find another job.

The air fryer went off, and I walked to the kitchen to take out the mixed vegetables and fish.

When I opened the fridge, I sighed in relief to see that Addison had left my stash of wine.

This was more crucial than the TV.

I enjoyed an episode of House and his misanthropic ways, deciding that I was heading down the same road at twenty-four years old.

It was midweek, but after today, I needed more than half a bottle of wine.

I washed up in the kitchen, grabbed the wine and snacks, and watched another episode of my medical drama, wondering what disease I could contract in order to call in sick tomorrow.

Perhaps the show would inspire me.

I was on my last glass of wine and two more episodes of House when my phone vibrated.

Unknown Number: I saw your advert for a roommate. I’m in the area. Can I view the room?

All I could see were pound signs and my rent being paid this month, without having to see Mr Goldberg’s nasty emails.

Me: Yes.

Unknown Number: Great. What’s the address and number of the apartment?

I frowned, trying to remember what I had scribbled on the advert. I gave up since the wine had taken over, and I texted the person my address.

Shit. They could be criminals.

So I texted again.

Me: Don’t try and kill me, I am armed.

I smiled, feeling better, until I realised that I might sound like a serial killer. Now the potential roommate might be alarmed, and I couldn't afford to lose that rent money.

Me: I’m not violent unless you're a serial killer or a food thief.

Relieved that I got that straightened out, I put the phone down. There was nothing worse than people in your home or work who stole food. I tried to remember if the bathroom and Addison’s room were presentable before checking my social media messages for the room. There were a grand total of zero messages.

When the buzzer went off, I jumped because if that was the potential roommate, they were quick.

Or perhaps time travels faster when you're drunk.

Did time travel or pass?

I was still considering this when I answered the buzzer by letting my potential roommate in.

I should've gone to the toilet first, but it was too late since I was only on the first floor. I unlocked the door just as someone knocked on it. When I opened the door, I found a smiling, dark-haired giant. I looked him up and down for two reasons.

He was hot, but I was drunk.

He wasn't a woman, but again, I was drunk.

“You're a man,”

I said to him, about to touch his broad chest.

“What are you? Six feet? You would steal all of my food for sure.”

Why was he wearing a T-shirt? Wasn't it cold outside? Did men's nipples usually poke out like that?

His pecs looked large. My eyes travelled across his chest to his arms.

Oh, my.

I touched his stiff, muscular arm.

Warm. Hard. Silky smooth.

Oh, this was bad.

So bad.

I couldn't have this fine piece of manhood as my roommate.

But he smelled so good.

I leaned in to inhale his cologne. The universe must hate me. I glanced up at his brownish-yellow eyes, clean-shaven face and such a thick head of hair. I reached up to touch his long hair, rubbing the strands between my fingers.

“No man-bun,”

I muttered to myself.

I glanced down at his denim jeans and decided the universe did hate me.

This was bad, so fucking bad.

That didn’t look like a banana in his pocket.

“You can't live here,”

I said to his crotch, feeling sad all of a sudden.

“I asked for a roommate with a vagina. Not you, little man.”

“Are yae talkin’ to me or ma dick?”

the vision said in a sinful Scottish accent, startling me.

My head snapped up because my DNA profile had a touch of Irish in me. The Scottish and the Irish always fascinated me, and here was a potential Scotsman looking to be my roommate.

“Can ah see yer room?”

I stared at him blankly.

Did he want to see my bedroom?

Dammit. I think I needed a translator.

This was bad. So, bad because I could see him in my bedroom, all right. Hair waving in the air, bare chest, with his kilt swinging around him. This was worse than bad. It was catastrophic. My ovaries just threw themselves at his feet. My entire career has been about risk assessment, and I have always been a cautious person since childhood. So why were my ovaries betraying me?

“The room yu’r advertising?”

he asked, but his words crashed through my fantasy like a bucket of water over my head.

I shuffled back, my hand falling away from the hard flesh of his arm. He wasn't here for me. The man needed a place to live. He stepped past me, and I took a last whiff of his cologne. The scent was familiar, but in my wine-muddled brain, I couldn't place it. My eyes lingered on his ass as I tried to drag my mind out of the gutter.

I blinked at the fine denim-coated buttocks while it dawned on me that in my haste to put the ad out for the room, I’d forgotten to add that I needed a female. My eyes travelled up to his lustrous, dark head full of hair, and I knew it was a bad idea. I should tell him to leave.

I couldn't live with a man.

I couldn’t live with him.

He looked over his shoulder with a wolfish smile.

Before I knew it, I was closing the door and walking towards him.

Fuck the universe.