Change With Me (With Me in Seattle 17.5)

I let my forehead fall against the steering wheel.

“Well, I guess that’s something. Maybe I’ll start looking for another place.”

There’s a knock on my window, and I look up into Zane’s stupidly handsome face.

“Leaving, after all?” he asks when I open the door.

“No. I was just having a minor nervous breakdown. I need to get my stuff.”

I walk to the back of the car, open the hatch, and pull out my two suitcases and one large tote. Zane immediately picks up the storage container and pulls one of the suitcases behind him to the stairs.

He’s strong. Those pieces aren’t light, and he just climbs the stairs like it’s nothing.

I’m struggling to get the last case halfway up when he returns, takes it from me, and hauls it up ahead of me.

He may be a pain in my ass, but he’s a helpful one.

“Where’s your stuff?” I ask when I find him setting my suitcase in the master bedroom.

“Being delivered tomorrow morning,” he replies. “I just have an overnight bag for now. I have to make some calls.”

He leaves, shuts himself in the smaller of the two rooms, and I hear his rich baritone as he speaks to someone on the phone.

I can’t hear the words, only the tone.

And guilt starts to set in.

Maybe it’s only fair that Zane has this room. He paid for the whole six months, and the landlord is returning my rent. Though, of course, I’ll pay Zane half each month. Just because he’s rich doesn’t mean he should foot the bill.

Why is he here? Why would he rent this little condo when he could have a huge house on the water? Or a trendy loft downtown.

I guess it’s none of my business. Except, it kind of is because he’s in my home.

I set my toiletry bag on the bathroom sink and quickly unpack, hanging my clothes and tucking my unmentionables in the dresser. I bought some new rain jackets, rain boots, and sweaters because it’s going to rain soon.

And I can’t wait.

Then, I take a deep breath and stand in front of the mirror, staring at myself.

Mousy brown hair and eyes.

Frumpy figure. I have curves where I shouldn’t and no boobs to speak of. I’ve never seen a flatter ass.

And when I take out my contacts, I’ll be in Coke-bottle glasses because I’m as blind as can be.

I’m just…plain. Invisible. Have been all my life. I don’t have many friends, and I’m not one that co-workers invite to be a part of their wine tastings and book clubs.

And that’s okay.

I don’t mind being alone.

In fact, I prefer it.

But now, I have a roommate. And not just any roommate. The most famous man on the damn planet.

“How is this my life?” I ask the reflection. “And what am I going to do about it?”

I can’t do much until I get that refund check, so I shrug, retrieve a notebook and pen from my office bag, and start making a grocery list.

I need to not worry about Zane and start focusing on everything I need to do before I start work in just a few days.

* * * *

“These steps are going to be the death of me,” I mutter as I muscle six grocery bags through the door.

Zane hops up off the couch and hurries over, frowning down at me.

“Why did you carry them all at once?”

“Because I only want to do those stairs one time,” I reply and sigh in gratitude when he relieves me of the bags and sets them on the island as if they weigh nothing at all. “And who goes back to the car for multiple trips? I’m no quitter, Zane.”

He smirks and starts rifling through my grocery sacks, so I slap his hands away.

“Get your own food, dude.”

“Why can’t we share?”

I scowl at him. “Because I bought this stuff. It’s what I like—my snacks, my meals. This whole roommate thing doesn’t include sustenance.”

“I’m not a great cook,” he says, thinking it over. “I hired a chef to come in. If you want, I’ll just tell her to make enough for two. Easy.”

I blink at him, surprised. “Why would you do that?”

“Because she’s coming anyway,” he says. “I’m pretty sure it’s no trouble for her to add enough for you, as well. It’s no biggie.”

“But you don’t have to do that.”

“Well, you might not like the food,” he says and pulls out a box of macaroni and cheese. “She won’t be making this.”

“I’ll be making that,” I reply and yank the blue box from his grasp. “Do you have a problem with mac and cheese?”

“Yeah. It’ll kill you. Do you know how many chemicals are in that? There’s no real cheese in there.”

“Stop judging my food.” I start unloading the groceries into the pantry. “It’s my emergency food anyway. I don’t usually eat mac and cheese all that often.”