Ainsley_Boothe:Yes! Internet is included—pretty decent speed, which should be fine for whatever you need. I've never had issues with connectivity or streaming, even when I'm using them at the same time. The router is in the living room, but the signal reaches the bedroom just fine. The password is changed monthly for security purposes, which I'll provide to you directly. Is there anything else you'd like to know? I'm happy to set up a time for you to view the room in person. I work evening shifts most days, so mornings or early afternoons work best for myschedule before I head to the bar. Would sometime this week work for you, or would this coming Saturday be better?
Troy_Abernathy:I arrive in town on Monday.
Ainsley_Boothe:Oh, okay. Then we can meet then, and if we click, the room is yours. The address is in my profile (142 Maple Street), but I'll send you a reminder message on Sunday just in case. Just a heads up—I'll need to see your ID when you arrive. Can never be too careful. Nothing personal, just want to make sure we're both comfortable with the arrangement! Also, parking is in the driveway or on the street, whichever works for you. See you Monday!
Troy_Abernathy:See you then.
Chapter 1
Ainsley
By the time the doorbell rings, my living room smells like lemon cleaner, my shirt is stuck to my back with sweat, and I am one minor inconvenience away from hunting down my ex–best friend with a shovel.
Not that I'd actually bury her in my garden. The tomatoes don't deserve that kind of bad juju.
I toss the cleaning rag onto the coffee table and stare at the front door as if it personally betrayed me. "This is your fault, Kelsey," I mutter under my breath, wiping my palms on my leggings. "If you hadn't skipped town with my savings, I wouldn't be renting my spare room to a total stranger off the internet."
The bell rings again, a second impatient ding that snaps my spine straight.
Right. Stranger. Background-checked, verified, allegedly normal stranger. Still a stranger.
I smooth a flyaway curl back into my ponytail, then immediately yank it out because it makes my face look rounder, and why am I thinking about my face when my entire life is about to become one long soap opera?
He's just a roommate, Ainsley. Month-to-month lease. Extra income. Not an audition for General Hospital.
I take a breath, straighten my spine, and unlock the deadbolt. The door swings open.
And my brain short-circuits.
Oh. Oh no.
The man on my porch is not the generic, forgettable "Construction worker. Thompson Construction. Just moved to town. Need place ASAP. Clean, quiet, no drama. Rules fine," his messages implied. He is…large. Broad. All shoulders and chest in a worn navy T-shirt that clings in all the places a T-shirt has no right to cling.
His duffel bag hangs off one thick forearm like it weighs nothing. Tattoos disappear beneath the sleeve, hints of black ink against tan skin. Faded jeans, scuffed boots planted wide, like he's braced for impact. Dark hair a little too long on top, like he's overdue for a cut. Deep lines around his mouth and eyes that tell stories I both do not need to know and very much want to.
Then there's his face.
Powerful jaw, dusted with dark scruff. Crooked nose that’s been broken at least once. Mouth firm, lips indecently full. His eyes—gray, sharp, assessing—land on mine, and I swear my ovaries stand up and salute.
I am completely, horrifyingly, shamelessly eye-fucking my new roommate on the front porch.
My gaze drags down his body, slow and greedy, like I've got a standing reservation at the buffet and zero self-control. Biceps. Veins on his forearms. Big hands. Thighs that strain the denim.A thick leather belt makes my brain supply images that should be illegal before noon on a Monday.
Heat punches low in my belly. My nipples tighten against my bra. My panties do a little swan dive toward oblivion.
Abort. Abort abort abort.
I jerk my eyes back up to his, my cheeks going nuclear. His mouth tips at the corner, just a little, like he knows exactly what my brain just did.
Professional, Ainsley. You put no flirting in bold. You are a responsible adult woman with a budget spreadsheet and a garden planner, not a horny raccoon.
"Hi," I blurt. My voice comes out higher than usual. Great. "You must be Troy."
He nods once. "Yeah. Ainsley?"
His voice is deep and rough, like gravel over velvet. Of course it is.
"Yep, that's me." I step back, gripping the doorknob to keep from fanning myself like a Victorian widow. "Come in. Um, sorry, I'm still finishing up some cleaning. Not that it was dirty. I just—like it extra clean. Before, you know, people…move in."
