I knock on the front door, but there’s no answer. After knocking again and waiting several minutes, I walk around to the back door. As I round the corner of the house, I hear music and singing.Badsinging. I stop in my tracks, listening, smiling at the fact Jessie can be so beautiful but sound like a dying goat.
And I can’t wait to tell her.
The music pauses when I knock loudly on the back door, making sure I’m heard over the music.
When she pulls the door open, her scowl meets my cheeky grin.
“Hey, roomie.”
“Trey.” She wipes the look off her face, clearly trying to be civil. “Come on in. I’ll show you your room.”
Alright, no small talk, getting straight down to business.
I take her in as she moves to the side, opening the door for me. She’s as captivating as always. The sun catches in her hazel eyes, making the blue pop around the deep green and caramel colors that are normally both more prominent. There is a wild kind of beauty to Jessie with the freckles on the bridge of her nose, which has a slight upturn to it, and her wild, deep red waves. She’s wearing gold chains on her neck and rings on several fingers, just like always. There isn’t an ounce of makeup on her face today, and it’s my favorite way I’ve ever seen her.
The back door leads into a small kitchen. Dated white cabinets frame the back wall in an L shape and a small dining table is situated on the other side of the peninsula. The tile on the floor is a horrible mint green, but I make a mental note not to tell her that, in case it’s something she likes.
“When did you buy the house?” I ask, trying to make conversation.
“A few years ago. It’s a fixer upper but I haven’t had time to fix anything. I had big plans but . . .” she trails off, pulling at a few strands of her hair.
I can tell she’s uncomfortable and wonder if it’s because I’m here or if she's worried about what I’ll think of her house. I feel bad; I’m sure it’s hard handling it all on her own.
“I like it. Fixer-uppers are great, you can make it your own that way.” My words release some tension in her body. “I could help if you want. I’m pretty handy—”
“No. Thank you. I don’t need any help, and you’re hurt.” Her tone is firm. It’s clear she doesn’t want help. That, or she isn’t used to getting any. I can’t tell which.
As she shows me around the house, it’s clear it indeed needsa lotof work. It’s spotless and tidy, but it looks like it’s straight out of the sixties and nearly falling apart. Several cabinet doors are loose, the base trim is coming off in places, kitchen tiles are cracked, and she said the dryer is broken. I can’t help butimagine what the space would look like remodeled. She has mismatched furniture, minimal decor, and a few photos of her with Kacey and an older woman I assume is her grandma.
“Bathroom is through there, and your room is here.” She opens a door leading to a small room with a full-size bed and a single nightstand. “It’s small, so if you need more space to store things, just let me know.”
“Small works. I don’t have much.” I can fit my entire life into the bed of a pickup. I always imagined I’d have more at the age of twenty-eight, but here we are. Jessie might be uncomfortable about her house, but at least she has one.
Twenty minutes later, I’ve unloaded all my meager belongings but my dust-covered gear bag containing my bull rope, chaps, vest, and helmet. I knew moving would be hard on my back. Knox offered to help, but I wanted to show up on my own. Get the lay of the land with Jessie. So, I gritted my teeth and hauled my belongings inside.
I wince as I carry my gear bag in the back door with me, back and legs on fire.
Jessie is sitting at the table eating a fruit salad.
“Hey, is there somewhere I can keep my gear bag? I don’t want to leave it in my truck.”
“There’s room in the closet by the front door.”
When I pull the handle to open the closet, it falls off in my hand.
That’s it.I’m making a list and fixing a few things around here.
Chapter 4
Jessie
When I opened the back door, I immediately regretted this decision. Trey stood there with his sharp jawline, crooked grin, and thick blond hair, looking like trouble. It's been three months since I’ve seen him, and it’s a lot easier to pretend I’m not attracted to him when I’m watching him on TV and stalking his Instagram. Now we’re freakingroommates.
I never would’ve agreed to this, but desperate times call for desperate measures. It’s only a few months—three or four tops—and he’ll be gone. For $1,500 a month, I can handle this. We’ll just stay out of each other’s way. I’ll still be working extra shifts, and I’m sure he’ll be busy wooing his way into local women’s beds.
This is fine.
I think he could tell I was uncomfortable on our little tour. My house is nothing to write home about, I know that, but I can’t afford to do anything about it. There is a reason I don’t invite Kacey or anyone else over: I haven’t done anything I saidI would. I bought this house with big plans to fix it up, and everybody knew that. Years later, the only thing I’ve done is paint a couple walls.
