He looks up as I approach. Those gray eyes skim my outfit—black tank, worn jeans, boots, flannel—then meet mine. There's a flicker there I can't read. Appreciation? Curiosity? Hunger?
Stop. Stop it.
"I'm heading out," I say, jangling my keys unnecessarily. "If you need anything, you can text me. My number's on the rule sheet. Emergencies only, obviously, unless it's like…you locked yourself out or the toilet is overflowing."
"I'll manage," he says. "You walk or drive?"
"Drive." I nod toward the side window. "Old Civic in the driveway."
He stands, and the room feels smaller again. "What time do you get off?"
"Bar closes at midnight, but I'm there until one, sometimes two, depending on how annoying drunk people are and how sticky the floors get." I shrug. "Don't wait up. That's a joke. Please don't wait up. That would be weird."
One corner of his mouth kicks up. "Got it. No weird waiting."
I hover by the door, reluctant to leave this strange new bubble where it's just the two of us and my anxiety hasn't had time to grow roots. Then my practical brain reminds me that money doesn't earn itself and I still have a mortgage.
"Okay. Well. Welcome home, I guess," I mumble. The words slip out before I can catch them.
His expression shifts, something like surprise flashing there before it smooths. "Thanks," he says. The word sounds rougher this time. "For letting me crash here."
"Not crashing," I say. "You're paying. This is a very official, professional arrangement."
No flirting, I remind myself. No pining. No imagining what he looks like under that shirt.
"If you say so," he murmurs.
My stomach flips. I back out onto the porch before my mouth can betray me again. The late afternoon air is warm on my bare arms. I pull the door shut, lock it, then glance through the small window.
He's still standing there, watching me.
Our eyes meet through the glass. He lifts a hand in a small wave. I wave back, then turn and jog down the steps to my car.
As I slide into the driver's seat, I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror. My cheeks are pink, my eyes bright. I look…alive. Frazzled, turned inside out, but alive.
"Okay, Boothe," I say to myself as I start the engine. "New plan."
Step one: survive the next month without drooling on my roommate.
Step two: pay the mortgage.
Step three: keep my panties intact.
As I pull away from the curb, I glance once in the side mirror.
Troy is still at the window, one hand braced on the frame, watching my car disappear down the street.
If the rent-a-room site had required profile pictures, I think, my heart thudding against my ribs, there is no way in hell I'd have approved his application.
My panties don't stand a chance. Shit. I'm supposed to be saving money, not buying underwear in bulk.
Chapter 3
Troy
Ainsley’s car disappears at the end of the street, and I’m still standing at the window like a creep.
“Get it together, Abernathy,” I mutter, dragging a hand over my face.
