They scream questions as I push through the horde demanding to know why I’m giving up my position in the World Cup, my multi-million-dollar contract with the Grizzlies. The answer is simple.
None of it’s worth it without her.
16
Saffie
Fiona stretches on the black leather couch, reading the card from the latest bouquet Grayson sent me. She gushes over it with a dreamy sigh as though it’s the most romantic thing she’s ever seen. "He wrote you a poem, Saff."
"I’m sure he Googled love poetry and chose the first one that popped up."
She stares at me. "It’s sweet."
Whatever.
Frowning, she slides it back into the bunch of red roses. "All I’m saying is maybe you should give him another chance."
I pull the laptop over my knees, sending her a glare over the screen. "I don’t do second or third chances, Fi. He thinks he can just buy his way into my life with a florist’s worth of flowers. It will not happen."
"Why not?" she says, fingering the dark red petals wistfully. "Doesn’t it show that he cares?"
"All it does it prove that he doesn’t take me seriously. I said we were over, and I meant it." I stab the keys more roughly than I should.
"I don’t know, Saffie. He seems like a nice guy." She dangles her feet over the arm. "If he didn’t give a shit, he’d leave you alone."
"You’re still not over the fact he’s a soccer star. I’ve never cared about that sort of thing, and neither should you."
"He stood there for hours calling your name. Forgive me for not having a heart of freaking stone."
Sighing, I debate whether I should take the laptop to my room to finish applications. It’s been three long weeks since I packed my bags, left Los Albos Ranch, and arrived on Fiona’s doorstep. Eating has been a challenge. Hell, waking up and peeling myself from bed takes hours instead of the five minutes it used to. At the ranch, he was the reason I woke up excited. If it weren’t for him, I would’ve lost my shit at Luke’s house.
And then he turned out to be a selfish asshole who only wanted me at his side to advance his career. Screw him.
If only it were that easy.
I miss him every day. I miss him so much that a void grows in the center of my chest, as though someone carved out my heart. Learning to forget is an exercise in patience because everything reminds me of him. I think of him when I don’t want to. The damn pineapple sitting on the kitchen table makes me remember Hawaii, and the private moments we shared there. They replay in my head, torturing me with memories of Grayson's broad smile, his body lying in the sun, and the warmth that filled me when he said he wanted more.
My heart clenches with the bitter sting of his betrayal, how he fooled me into thinking it was real. I was an idiot to fall in love. He stabbed me in the back, and that wound won’t heal overnight. Or in three weeks.
At least I realized what I want in life, and that’s not practicing law. Everything I’ve done until now was for my father’s sake. A second wave of pain hits me because the few untainted memories I have of my father are ruined. He’s not my real dad. Who the hell knows who he is—Mom never told me. And she lied all those years, made me think I was his daughter. No wonder she cried all the damn time.
This horrible insecurity also spawned awful questions I can’t ignore. Did she love me? Or regret me?
I shove those thoughts aside, focusing on the bright screen of my laptop. The vet a block down is hiring for assistants. I’ll apply for that and similar jobs while I save money to become a veterinary technician because I can’t stand not living for myself anymore.
Fiona’s flatscreen TV turns on as I type away. Her arm hangs off the couch as she switches channels. "I wonder if there’s a new—ooh!"
She stops at ESPN, which has a close-up of a blonde as a headline fills the bottom of the screen: GRAYSON SHAW QUITS PRO SOCCER.
"Next up, we have a video of Grayson Renato’s shocking announcement outside his San Francisco apartment in Union Square."
I shove the laptop aside as Grayson fills the screen. The footage is edited to show snippets of his statement. Grayson takes a deep breath, looking into the camera. "I’m retiring from soccer, effective immediately." It abruptly skips forward, cutting through the scream of questions. "I owe the greatest apology to the woman I hurt. Saffie Pardini, I’m sorry. I messed up, and I’m trying to make it right. And I love you. I’m sorry I took so long to say it, but I mean it from the bottom of my heart, and I hope you’ll learn to forgive me one day."
My voice drowns out the TV. "He quit?"
Fiona gapes at the screen. "See?" she gloats. "The guy’s madly in love with you."
A twinge of doubt weakens my resolve—he wouldn’t do all this if it weren’t real. "I guess it could be a publicity stunt."
"Oh, come on, Saffie! He wants you back," she bellows. "He’s been here almost every freaking day, banging on our door."
I wave at the TV. "So this is supposed to get my attention?"
"He’ll do anything for you. That’s what this is about."
Numb, I sink into the cushions and watch the commentators debate whether this is the end of Grayson's career. "I didn’t want him to destroy his life for me."
She chews her thumb. "Then you better go over there and tell him, because he’s determined to follow this through."
The laptop slides to the couch as I stand, heart pounding. If he meant every word, then what the hell am I doing here? I have to see him to stop him from doing something so foolish.
Fiona shakes her head. "So help me God, if you won't chase after him, I will. He’s one of the good ones, Saffie. Don’t be an idiot."
I stare at Grayson's high-rise, swallowing hard as though the only way to reach Grayson is by scaling its walls. A sea of reporters blocks the doors. The people crowding the road doubled when Grayson's video went viral on Facebook.
They spot me as soon as I cross the street, sprinting in my direction. I keep my head high, fighting the instinct to run away. They shove microphones in my face as I walk toward the entrance, squeezing through a mass of bodies. Fans wearing Grizzlies jerseys shout abuse. The cacophony follows me until I clear the glass doors, the fans pushed aside by security guards. Then I stand in the lobby and realize I don’t know where the hell he lives.
I approach the receptionist, who’s dressed in a black skirt with a string of pearls strung around her neck. "Um—I need to see Grayson Shaw."
"Your name?"
"Saffie Pardini."
She searches her computer, pulling a screen. "I’m not finding you. Are you sure he put you on the list?"
I sigh. "No."
She smiles apologetically. "Then I’m sorry. I can’t let anyone through without authorization."
Shit.
An elevator chimes. The doors slide open, and Grayson steps out. He’s dressed in black silk pajama bottoms and a white T-shirt. I walk toward him, wanting to laugh at how ridiculous it looks, but then he takes me into his arms. All the anger I held onto for weeks is numbed by heart-wrenching relief.
"How did you know I was here?"
"Twitter." Another thing I missed: the sound of his voice. "My fans took photos of you and tagged me."
The glass rattles behind us as a fan escapes the barrier and pounds the wall. I face Grayson, shaking my head. "What are you doing, Grayson?"
"Anything I can to win you back."
My eyes well. "I didn’t ask for this. I never wanted to destroy your life."
"Babe, you are my life." He grips my waist, his fingers spreading heat through my body as I struggle not to fall into his chest. "I’m no good without you."
"What you did was so stupid." I shove him. "Quitting the team? Are you crazy?"
He gently takes my wrists. "Saffie, I’m in love with you. I know that’s hard for you to accept."
I pull from his touch. "No, it’s not."
"You’ve forgotten what it’s like to be loved. This is what people do when they�
�re in love. They lay it all on the line for the person most important to them."
Tears spill down my cheeks as he hugs me, refusing to let me go. A violent force bursts open the cage, and every emotion I’ve kept stifled or hidden out of sight suddenly runs through me. I cling to Grayson's broad shoulders, grateful for the shelter of his arms.
"I love you, too."
17
Saffie
It’s always a joy to watch my boyfriend play, but in the VIP luxury lounge, it’s an experience. The champagne flows like water. I have hors d’oeuvres from Grayson's personal chef and a bird’s-eye view of the field. Dark, cherry-stained wood with black accents decorates the room. A bartender mixes drinks for guests, and a man offers a heated towel.
I love coming here.
I take the damp cloth from the server and wipe my hands, stopping to watch as Grayson sprints from the midfield like a rocket, outstripping the other players. He’s a damn viper. When he notices an opportunity, he strikes. I don’t know how he’s able to see three moves ahead, but he told me it’s all gut instinct. He doesn’t have to think about it.
He feigns left with the ball. The keeper dives toward the corner of the net—the wrong one. The room swells with a combined scream as the ball sinks in. Grayson makes a lap around the goal, grinning as the clock strikes zero.
Another win for the Grizzlies.
Smiling, I crack open my animal biology textbook and read the notes I took yesterday. There's an exam on Monday. I need to be prepared. Then the school year will be over, and I’ll have time to enjoy the rest of the summer.
It’s been ten months with Grayson. Almost twelve months of the most amazing relationship I’ve ever had. I started taking classes to become a vet tech. We moved in together. I wake every morning to his smell clinging the sheets. By all accounts, my life is perfect.
I can’t say the same for my brother, who filed for divorce and was traded to a team in Chicago. I haven’t seen him since last summer, and now I let his calls go to voicemail. On Christmas, he sent me a card with only two words: I’m sorry.
I don’t know if I’ll ever speak to him again.
The sting sharpens into a knifepoint. He didn’t grow up into the man I hoped he’d be. The person I admired on TV wasn’t a good person. Coming to grips with that is hard. Grayson tells me one day it won’t hurt so bad, and I think he’s right. Every morning it hurts a little less.
The television booms with the noise from the crowd. Hordes of people scream, waving streamers and blowing horns. Grayson lines up with the opposing team to shake hands, and then he jogs to the side for post-game interviews.
A CNS sports reporter leans in. "Grayson, the World Cup is a few months away. How do you feel about playing Portugal in your first match?"
Sweat streaks down Grayson's cheeks as he speaks into the microphone. "I’m very excited and confident. The team’s in really high spirits."
"And what’s in store for you for the next few weeks?"
A slow grin tiptoes across his face. "Well, I’m hoping to plan a wedding with my girlfriend, Saffie."
"What?" I search the room as blood drains from my head. "He means me, right? He said my name."
Amused faces stare at me, and my attention shifts to the television.
The reporter chuckles. "You’ve asked her to marry you?"
"Not yet," he says, producing a little black box. "Saffie, come here. I need to tell you something."
My hands fly over my mouth, partially muffling a scream. Everyone stares. "Is he crazy? How do I even get down there?"
The attendant who poured my champagne appears at my side, grinning. "This way, ma’am."
I stand, feeling unsteady on my feet as I follow him outside. "He planned this, didn’t he?" Cool air blasts my uncovered limbs as I step into the outdoor arena, which is like a hive of noise. The chanting will not let up, even as players clear the field. I descend metallic steps, numb to the chill. Movement to my left drags my attention to it, and I see my shocked face on the Jumbotron.
Damn. I should’ve put concealer under my eyes.
That’s my most pressing concern as I follow the attendant to the pitch, which roars when I draw closer. I know what I’ll say the moment he asks, but nothing prepares me for the sight of Grayson bending his knee in front of a dozen reporters and opening that black box.
With a hopeful grin, he offers me the ring. "Will you—"
"Yes! Of course."
He stands, throwing his arms around me, kissing the shell of my ear. "I didn’t even get the words out."
I blink back the mist. "Say them if it makes you happy. I know what my answer is."
His lips curve with mischief. "Will you…try anal tonight?"
I jab his chest, halfway between crying and laughing. "Don’t joke."
"Fine. Marry me, Saffie."
"Okay."
His eyes dance with wild happiness before he kisses me. Cheers erupt around us when we break apart, and Grayson seizes my shaking hand to slide a ring on my finger. His thumb wipes away my tears. Thousands of fans hammer their seats, and the stadium bursts with ear-splitting fanfare. Bass from the speakers trembles the ground, traveling up my legs as I cling to Grayson for dear life. "Holy shit."
"You okay?" He laughs, holding me tight. "Maybe I should’ve planned a low-key proposal."
I shake my head, dazzled by the screaming fans. "No, it’s perfect."
I love the noise because it’s for us. A thousand people cheering for my relationship is a high unlike anything I’ve experienced. Delirious joy swells inside me.
My pain is obliterated by the bright light of his promise. The pang of losing my family dims like a white dwarf shrinking in a faraway universe, because there’s only one happiness in this world.
To love and be loved.
Want to know what happens in a few years? Click HERE to get a sneak peek at Grayson and Saffie's life four years later!
Thank you so much for reading The Roommate Arrangement. If you enjoyed the story, please remember to leave a review! Sign up to my mailing list for a free book and more information about my new releases, chances to win ARCs, and fun giveaways.
Keep reading for The Cinderella Arrangement and the first chapters of my upcoming release, The Ex Arrangement!
The Cinderella Arrangement
1
Freezing mist greeted me as I exited the train and made my way through the station to the street. I clutched the resume I spent the morning scrambling to finish in my folder as I climbed into the shuttle bus that would take me to the dreary gray college campus I thought I’d never see again.
Sickness riled my stomach as I wondered what I’d say to Professor Lark. Please help me find a job. I’m desperate. There was no guarantee I’d get anything from this meeting.
Every writing gig I applied to demanded at least five years of experience. Searching craigslist was an exercise in futility. Some of my friends switched to other careers while others went to grad school and retreated into the false security it provided.
I walked across the campus and opened the door to the English department. As I followed the hallway, I saw many professors I recognized at their desks, some in meetings with students.
God, it’s weird to be back here.
I stopped behind Professor Lark’s door, my heart beating fast. Then I heaved a great sigh and raised my fist. I knocked three sharp raps.
“Come in.”
Professor Lark wheeled around in his chair and smiled as I entered the door. “Jessica, how are you?”
“Good,” I lied as I hitched up a grin. My grip tightened over my resume. “How are your classes?” I asked as I sat down.
He was young for a college professor, with thick brown hair and an attractive face. Professor Lark was known for being easygoing and fair. Everyone liked him.
“The furloughs have been frustrating, as you know. But otherwise, it’s been fine. How goes your internship?”
The burn of failure heated my che
st. “They kept me for a year.”
“Ah.”
“They told me they didn’t have a paid position available. So I quit.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. At least it will look good on your resume.”
A sting of anger punctured my anxiety. Didn’t anyone understand I couldn’t live on unpaid internships?
“That’s sort of why I’m here. I’ve been applying to editing jobs, even technical writing, and I’m having a hard time. It’s been a year since I left my internship and I still haven’t found anything.”
The panic crept into my voice. Professor Lark looked sympathetic, but I didn’t see anything on his face that gave me hope.
“Perhaps you should get a job while you continue searching. I’m sorry, Jessica. I don’t think I’ll be much help. Have you tried looking in the career center?”
I refused to accept that. “Don’t you have contacts in the industry? Anyone you could send my resume to? I already tried the career center.”
He took the resume from my hands, avoiding my eyes as he scanned it. "I've been out of touch with them for a few years. I'm sorry you came all this way for this. The only thing I can suggest—"
My heart swelled with hope.
"—is to keep trying. Get a paying job anywhere; it doesn't matter. On the side, get another internship or a volunteering gig at a big five publisher. Just keep at it. You need more experience."
I couldn’t count how many times I’d heard, “Don’t give up” or “Keep trying.” One of these days, someone will see how dedicated you are. You’ll have a cushy job in the city and an apartment with an in-unit washer and dryer, and parking included, and everything will be perfect. Not messy, like everyone else’s lives.
The Secret Arrangement Page 37