It’s the best thing that ever happened to either of us.
I fold the rules and slide them back into the basket, then set the mug upright on the nightstand. The words stare back at me: Roommates, Not Soulmates.
“We’ll see about that,” I say under my breath.
I’m not leaving this house unless she’s coming with me.
And as for her bed?
I glance at the wall again, thinking about how small my room feels and how much smaller hers must be with our beds pressed up against opposite sides of the same plaster.
Yeah.
Her bed’s not staying off-limits forever.
The only thing I haven’t figured out yet is how long it’s going to take before she realizes it.
Chapter 4
Ainsley
I haven't slept.
Not one minute.
I've been lying in my bed for the past four hours, staring at the ceiling, hyper-aware of every sound coming from the other side of the wall. The creak of Troy's bedframe when he shifted. The soft thud of his feet hitting the floor. The muffled groan of the pipes when he turned on the shower at six-fifteen.
Six-fifteen.
Who showers at six-fifteen in the morning? Former military construction workers, apparently. Former military construction workers who are now living in my house, sleeping ten feet away from me, sharing my bathroom and my kitchen and my air.
I roll over and punch my pillow. It doesn't help.
My brain won't shut up. It keeps replaying yesterday on a loop—Troy filling my doorway, Troy's fingers brushing mine, Troy saying, "I'm good at following orders" in that low, rough voice that made my entire nervous system short-circuit.
I groan into the pillow.
This is fine. This is totally fine. It's just first-night jitters. New roommate energy. By tonight I'll be used to him, and I'll sleep like a normal human being who doesn't lie awake obsessing over a man she's known for less than twenty-four hours.
The shower turns off.
I freeze, listening. Footsteps—heavy but controlled—move from the bathroom back to his room. A drawer opens. Closes. More footsteps, this time heading toward the kitchen.
I check my phone. Seven o'clock.
There's no way I'm falling asleep now.
"Screw it," I mutter, throwing back the covers.
I stumble out of bed, glimpsing myself in the mirror over my dresser. I look like death. Hair in a ratty topknot, dark circles under my eyes, wearing an oversized T-shirt that says "Rosé All Day" and sleep shorts that are... shorter than I remember.
Whatever. It's seven in the morning, and I got home at two. He's lucky I'm wearing pants at all.
I pad down the hallway, barefoot and bleary-eyed, following the smell of coffee like a zombie tracking brains.
Troy is in the kitchen.
Of course he is.
