I tilt my head to the side, letting my gaze slowly drift up and down the length of his form as I straighten my spine. “Good point. The ghost of Pedro Pascal would be a much sweeter roommate.”
“I don’t know who that is,” Winston replies, his brows pinched together, as if he assumes I made him up.
“Shame. You could learn a lot from him.”
I go back to eating my breakfast with a smirk tugging at my lips, knowing I rattled my grumpy roommate. That’s never been a skill of mine. I’m the woman who agonizes over what sheshould’vesaid days, even weeks later.
Winston floats out of the room, and I let out a deep breath of relief once I’m alone. What is it about him that puts me on edge? And is he truly an asshole? Or just annoying as hell?
He’s rude, and nosy, and he definitely needs a hobby, but I get this feeling he’s, I don’t know…misunderstood? Like there’s a deeper layer to him that’s self-effacing and affable.
My feelings are famously flawed, though, especially when it comes to men. The ones who seem broken by trauma and justwaiting for The Right Woman to come along and put them back together seem to flock to me, and I can never resist.
It’s a problem.
I’ve wasted too many years on men like that––one man in particular––and I don’t want to keep making the same mistakes. I’d like to settle down someday. Maybe get married. Kids probably aren’t in the cards for me anymore since I’m in my forties, and that’s okay. As long as I have someone to come home to, someone who loves me as much as I love them, does what he says he’s going to do, and doesn’t take advantage of how much I’m willing to give, that’s all I need.
I wonder what Winston was like as a husband. Was he attentive and––No. Stop thinking about him as anything other than your dead roommate.
Catching feelings for the ghost in the attic would be a colossal mistake, and one I can’t afford to make.
Chapter 6
Winston
All is peaceful at the manor for the next twenty-four hours. The boundaries Natalie and I have put in place seem to work, for the most part.
It’s a quarter past eleven when I look for the broom to sweep the front steps. Acorns have begun falling in buckets, and the pinecones won’t be far behind. I sweep the steps every few days, and I know when I last did it I put the broom back in the pantry next to the kitchen, where it’s always been kept. So why is it missing?
At first, I think Natalie has decided to sweep the floors, and the thought gives me hope that we could divide some of the household chores. I look everywhere for the broom. Each room of the house has been checked, and nothing. I’m taking a second lap through the kitchen when music starts pulsating through the floor above, and heavy-gaited steps move back and forth at a frenzied pace.
I find the door to Natalie’s room closed when I reach the second floor, but the music is so loud, I can understand the lyrics. Natalie doesn’t hear me knock the first time, or thesecond, so I begin pounding with my fist. After knocking the tenth time, I lose my patience and open the door.
My roommate is pacing across the abstract rug, her feet bare, as she hums along with the song playing. She’s wearing a sleeveless teal dress that lands just above her knees, her golden waves whirling around her shoulders as she spins on her heel to go in the other direction. The scent of her hair wafts toward me––strawberries––and I breathe it in, holding my breath to keep it in my lungs. Her right arm, from shoulder to elbow, is covered in a large black tattoo of an elephant surrounded by wildflowers. It’s incredibly detailed, and I want to know more about it. Why an elephant, of all things?
She still hasn’t noticed me leaning against the door frame, and I don’t announce myself. Instead, I watch her. Her brows are knitted together as she chews the inside of her cheek, her hands fisted and punching down at her sides. It’s clear that this is nervous energy she’s trying to work off, and I laugh quietly at how ridiculous she looks. However, I can’t deny how adorable she is in this frazzled state.
I start to feel guilty about spying, and even more guilty about my level of fascination in this woman, when I’m still a married man. What is wrong with me? Why am I so captivated by her? Watching her without her consent is a direct violation of our deal, so I yell, “Why wasn’t I invited to the party?”
She makes the same squeak that she did yesterday when I entered the kitchen. The one that sounds like the tail end of a sneeze. “Hey!” she replies, gritting her teeth at the sight of me. She looks enraged, but the redness of her cheeks implies she’s mostly embarrassed. “You said you’d knock first.”
“I did. Ten times.”
She grabs her phone off the dresser and turns down the volume.
“Why aren’t you wearing your ear sticks?” I ask. “They could probably hear your music across town. I wouldn’t be surprised if the police arrived with a noise complaint.”
“My earbudsare charging. This isn’t Taylor Swift. It’s Cardi B, to hype me up, because I’m about to go into town to look for a job, and I’m freaking out because I’m not emotionally prepared to get rejected again.”
I have no idea who that is, but it doesn’t matter. “What makes you think you’ll be rejected?”
She huffs a breath and starts pacing again. “Before I moved here, I went job hunting all over town, and no one wanted to hire me. I didn’t even get a call or email back about an interview.” The skirt of her dress swishes around her. “Not that I blame them. My resume makes me look like a flake. Over the last six years, I’ve had a handful of jobs, none I was at for more than a year, and they’re all low-end jobs a teenager could do. Then there are the gaps in employment. They always give me a side-eye on that one. Even though it was to care for my mom, it’s like they don’t believe it, or it wasn’t a good enough reason to stop working.”
Her pacing quickens, the skin on her knuckles going white. “But what was I supposed to do? We couldn’t afford to have a live-in nurse, so I did everything. I gave her her meds.” She stops to look at me. “Do you know how many pills a person with cancer has to take per day? It’s easily two dozen.”
“That is a lot of pills,” I reply, nodding. I want to say more, but the words would be hollow compared to what she endured, so I remain quiet.
“I drove her to all her chemo appointments, I helped her to the bathroom, helped her bathe, tried to find the magic combination of foods that wouldn’t make her sick, and when she was, I made sure I was right there with a vomit bag. Was I reallysupposed to sacrifice the three hours of sleep I got each night to work on a side hustle?”
