She doesn't answer. Just picks up a rag and moves down the bar to wipe it down.
By the time we close up at midnight, I'm running on fumes. My feet ache, my back is sore, and all I want is to crawl into bed and not think about roommates or rules or the way Troy's gaze sucked me in as he watched over me tonight.
I drive home on autopilot, the streets quiet and empty. When I pull into the driveway, the porch light is on. Troy must have left it on for me, and something in my chest loosens.
Inside, the house is dark and silent. I lock the door behind me, kick off my boots, and pad down the hall toward my room.
Troy's door is closed. A thin line of light shows underneath. He must still be awake.
I pause outside my door, staring at that sliver of light, and my brain supplies about a dozen scenarios that have no business being there. Troy in bed, shirtless, reading. Troy in bed, shirtless, scrolling on his phone. Troy in bed, shirtless, thinking about—
Stop it.
I slip into my room, close the door, and lean against it, pressing both hands to my face.
"This is fine," I whisper. "Everything is fine."
Except it's not fine.
Steph was right. I am into him. And the rules I worked so hard to create feel less like protection and more like a cage.
I change into sleep shorts and an oversized T-shirt, wash my face, brush my teeth, and crawl into bed. The house is quiet except for the faint creak of Troy moving around in his room. I hear the soft thud of something hitting the floor—his boots—and then silence.
I close my eyes and try to sleep.
But all I can see is Troy standing behind that drunk asshole, his hand clamped on the guy's shoulder, his voice low and dangerous. She said no.
God, that was hot.
Too hot.
Dangerously hot.
The kind of hot that makes a girl reconsider her entire list of rules and wonder what it would be like to just... let go.
I roll over, punch my pillow, and groan into the darkness.
"You're screwed, Boothe," I mutter. "Completely and utterly screwed."
And the worst part?
I'm not even mad about it.
Chapter 7
Troy
Sunday morning, and I've been awake since five-thirty, staring at my ceiling like it holds answers. It doesn't.
What it does hold is the knowledge that Ainsley is on the other side of this wall, still sleeping after her Saturday night shift, and I need to figure out how to navigate the next few hours without scaring her off or breaking every single one of her rules.
The problem is, I don't want to follow the rules anymore.
I want to touch her. I want to know what makes her laugh when she's not stressed about rent or ex-friends or drunk assholes at the bar. I want to see her in that garden she's so protective of, the one she treats like it's the only thing in the world that won't let her down.
And I want her to let me in.
I roll out of bed, pull on jeans and a T-shirt, and head to the kitchen. Coffee first. Strategy second.
