Three
Jenny
Today is move-in day for my new roommate, which means a sleepless night beforehand for me, then three feverish hours scrubbing the apartment until it shines. I want to make a good impression, right? I know I’m not what most people want in a roommate, but hey—I’m clean and tidy, and I’ll do my half of taking out the trash.
Hopefully that’s enough.
God, please let it be enough. I don’t want to put out another room ad.
Back home, my family used to tease me for being such a lurker. Keeping to my own room; moving around quietly at night. They called me the family poltergeist.
And that’s when they were being nice about it. My brother pointedly sent me an article once about a murderer who lived in his victims’ walls.
I’m not sure who was more relieved when I finally moved out of my parents’ house to live here in the city—me or them. Don’t get me wrong, I love my family, but after spending twenty years in the same house…
It was a lot. We all needed some space.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket, and I pause in scrubbing the kitchen sink, breathing hard with strands of blonde hair stuck to my forehead. It takes me a second to fumble my pink rubber glove off, and then I’m frowning down at a text from an unknown number.
Delete.That’s my first instinct. Delete, block, stick my phone on airplane mode. Never let the universe bother me again. Except my thumb freezes over the screen, thank god, and sweat slides down my spine.
Because it’s my new roommate.
Duh.
Five minutes away. Lincoln.
I stare at the name, my pulse thudding in my ears. I’ve never lived with a man before. My dad and brothers don’t count. When I got Lincoln’s message about the room, I nearly turned him down right away, but something stopped me. An instinct. A strange urge—no, a need to meet him.
But I was tipsy, and riding the sugar high of three bowls of ice cream. Not making good decisions, clearly.
My thumb shakes as I type out a quick reply, adding a smiley face and then deleting it before hitting send. Shoving the phone back in my jeans pocket, I tug off the other rubber glove, then stash my cleaning supplies under the sink, letting out slow, measured breaths the whole time.
It’s fine. It’s fine. My parents have Lincoln’s details—if anything weird happens, if my mangled body turns up in a sewer, they’ll know who did it. This is a smart, reasonable decision. I am being financially responsible.
Ugh.
My stomach lurches as I leave the sparkling kitchen, and I’m not sure if it’s nerves about meeting Lincoln or the memory of that stupid ice cream.
* * *
Lincoln is gorgeous. Fuck my life. I stare at the man unloading his bags from the trunk of a cab onto the sidewalk, my face frozen in a mask of dismay. Thick, dark hair shifts in the breeze and hangs over his forehead; keen gray eyes flick to me then away as he goes to pay the cab driver.
A black t-shirt hugs his strong chest and toned shoulders, the dye faded from wear and multiple washes. Vivid tattoos spill out from his sleeves, wrapping around his muscled arms, and reach all the way down to his wrists.
A camera bag is slung around his neck, and his worn jeans hug his ass. His brown leather boots are those no-nonsense type, the sort that could grind me under his heel.
The cab pulls away, and Lincoln turns to face me. Oh, boy. Here we go.
I clear my throat and make sure my tongue is in my mouth.
“Hi.” I know from our brief text exchange that Lincoln just got back from a work trip to the Sahara, but from my hoarse voice, I sound like the one with the terrible thirst. I raise a hand, my fingertips still puckered from three hours in rubber gloves. Gross. “I’m Jenny.”
“Good to meet you, Jenny.”
Yikes, his voice is deep. There’s a roughness to it, too, like the growl of a motor engine, but Lincoln’s mouth quirks up as he shoulders his bags and scoops a large box off the sidewalk. He walks closer, holding it up like he’s presenting an offering, gray eyes sparkling with humor.
Even when he’s smiling, his eyebrows are pinched in a slight frown.