The Roommate Arrangement

by Vanessa Waltz

  I don’t care.

  The table at the Airbnb rattles as I slam the wine bottle down, glaring at the four walls of this place. Unanswered emails from work blink at me from the phone.

  Fuck. It. All.

  I pull out the conspiracy theory newsletter and burst out laughing at the headline again. Maybe after dinner I’d read this thing with a glass of wine. When was the last time I’d actually read something for fun? Too long. And while I’m here, there won’t be any distractions. No work. No Mark. Nothing but peace and—

  Someone knocks.

  Damn it. Who is it?

  It takes two seconds for me to cross the room and open the door to one of the most stunning men I’ve ever seen.

  “Hello, welcome t—ah.” Recognition dawns on his handsome face.

  Oh my God. It’s him.

  “Well, well, well,” he chimes. “San Francisco.”

  The mechanic is standing at my front door. Wearing clothes, thankfully. He wears a plaid flannel shirt, all the grease washed from his body, his black hair slightly damp from the shower. A clean pair of jeans covers what I imagine are toned, muscular legs. Damn. If he wasn’t hot half-naked with the oil running down his chiseled pecs as though I unwittingly strolled onto a porn set, he sure as hell is now. He runs a hand through his hair, his smile widening.

  I am not happy to see him. “Did you come down here to lecture me about something else wrong with my car?”

  “No—”

  “Then save it. I’m in no mood to talk to you.”

  A deep sound rumbles from the back of his throat. “That’s no way to speak to your new landlord.”

  Landlord? “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I own the place,” he says, eyes glittering. “And I came here, San Francisco, to invite you to the town. Give you a tour of the amenities. The wifi password. I know you definitely want that.”

  Oh God. He’s the owner. I’ll see him every day. Heat runs up my back. The more I look at him, the more it smolders.

  I’m trembling. I don’t get nervous around men. When I open my mouth, my words stumble over themselves. “My name is Olivia. I’d appreciate it if you called me by my name.”

  “Look, sweetheart—”

  “Olivia.”

  “I’m not some pushover, all right? If you wanted the five-star treatment, you should have booked another place.”

  “There literally was no other place! You think I wanted to come here? You have more one-stars than that new Twilight book!”

  His brows furrow. “What the fuck is twilight?”

  “It’s a book about—oh God—why am I even talking to you about this?”

  “I know for a fact you need a place to stay for a few weeks.”

  “Might need.”

  The smile he gives me sends my heart flipping. “Whatever. You’re in no hurry to head home, for whatever reason. And like you said, I’m the only available option.”

  “Why do I get the feeling this is leading up to something bad?”

  The grin turns feral. “‘Cause you have a nasty mind. You help me, and I’ll let you stay here.”

  “With what?”

  “I have a job for you, but if it blows…” he lifts his shoulder in a shrug.

  My chest tightens at the word. “Blows?”

  “Yeah, if you suck at the job.” A small smile plays on his lips.

  Then it clicks into place. “You’re disgusting.”

  The bastard leans on the side of the threshold, the picture of calm. “Careful, sweetheart. Your voice is carrying into the street.”

  “You can blow yourself.”

  I start closing the door, but Gage lets out a roar of laughter so loud that I take a step back in shock. The floor trembles with his voice, and he even drags a knuckle under his eyes to wipe away tears of mirth.

  “That is not what I meant. Jesus.”

  “It so is. Do not deny it!” My face starts to burn.

  He shakes his head, still chuckling. “Damn, girl. When was the last time you got laid?”

  The air freezes inside my chest as Gage takes one giant step inside. My heart hammers as his swaggering presence fills the small studio. Then my knees are knocked out from under me as I back into the bed, sitting down. The heat from humiliation smolders into a different sort of burn as Gage approaches, close enough for me to smell him. Irish Spring.

  He touches my shoulders, fingers grinding into my skin to lift me up. Even though it’s a violation, a stunning bolt hits my brain, and I’m unable to think. I can’t look away from his eyes, as blue as the ocean at night. How long has it been?

  “That’s none of your—”

  “Has it been so long that you’re starting to see cocks everywhere? I say blow, and you think about oral.”

  “Shut up.”

  I try shoving him, but he’s like solid rock. He retreats back a step, smiling. “I was saying that you could do a few things for me. Like de-weed the garden.”

  I glance through one of the windows. There’s no garden. It’s a giant lawn. “Are you kidding me?”

  He gazes at his fingernails, suddenly looking bored. “Or I could, you know, just throw you out. With everything booked, you’d have no place to stay.”

  “You really are a jerk.”

  “So I’ve been told,” he drawls.

  “No wonder people in town warned me about you.”

  Gage turns his back on me as he walks toward the door. “You’re going to have to get your hands dirty, city girl.” Then he gives me a look over his shoulder. “Not in the way you want.”

  Bastard.

  Chapter Two - The Mechanic

  Gage

  Music pounds through the garage and rattles the windows. A sheet of metal digs into my glove as I pound the dents out for the rear fender. The skeletal bones of my motorcycle sit in front of me. It’s a nice morning. A strip of sunlight blankets the driveway as I hammer the shit out of the scrap.

  PANG! PANG! PANG!

  It’s loud enough to hear through the classic rock blaring through my stereo, but I don’t care. It feels good to watch the bumps even out and bash something in. Another blow hits the sheet a little too hard, and I flip it around. Damn it. I give the distortion a few taps, evening it out again.

  I know what’s got me worked up. The hot girl next door. Olivia Stewart. The city girl and her goddamn Toyota Scion.

  The moment I saw her, I wanted to bend her over the car and claim those pouting lips. And unzip her tank top and feel her tits spilling into my hands. My pants tighten, my cock swelling at the thought of Olivia’s stubborn mouth wrapped around it.

  She’s gorgeous, but not at all my type. Still, there’s something curious about a woman who drives four fucking hours in those fuck-me heels and outfit. When I saw her wheel out those two suitcases, I knew she’d be a pain in the ass. A high-maintenance drama queen. But even that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t jump at the chance to fuck her. My body rolls with heat at the thought of having her.

  I lift my hammer again—PANG! Beating this thing to death won’t get her out of my head. The sound ricochets in my ear. It’s painful. The image of Olivia distorts. I raise my arm—and the music suddenly stops.

  What the hell?

  Behind me, Olivia stands next to the stereo, her finger pressing the off button. Her hair is mussed up from sleep, her cherry red lips fixed into a scowl. She’s wearing pink pajamas that don’t soften her pissed off expression. She takes a few steps toward me, her flip-flops smacking the cement, and I notice she doesn't have a bra. I can see her peaked nipples. My mouth goes dry.

  “Good morning, San Francisco. Did you sleep well?” I bite my laughter as I watch her swallow, Don’t call me that!

  She crosses her arms over her chest, unfortunately hiding the nice view of her tits. “I was until now. What are you doing?”

  “I just like to bang on shit. Look at the garage, sweetheart. I’m building a motorcycle.”

  “Do you really have to do
that at nine in the morning?”

  I smirk at her. “No, I don’t.”

  Pink patches of fury rise to her cheeks. She looks like an angry goddess as her hands fall to her hips. She stands over me. I can practically see electricity shooting from her eyes. For some bizarre reason, I want to crush my lips against her mouth and steal that scowl. Fuck me, but I want her.

  “Turn the music back on.”

  City girl doesn’t move. Instead she stares me down. Hands on her hips like she’s my goddamn wife. Standing in the middle of my garage as though she owns it. “No.”

  I must have heard wrong. “Did you seriously just say no to me? This is my property, sweetheart.”

  “I booked a room here. I’m entitled to peace and quiet.”

  “You’re entitled to what I allow you to do, seeing as it’s my house. If you don’t turn that sweet ass of yours around and press that button, I’ll make you trim my hedges.”

  There. Let her work that one over in her head. It’s almost fun to watch her suppress another insult. Her lips go purple as she presses them together to keep from screaming at me.

  Her pretty eyes narrow in suspicion. “You’re baiting me.”

  “Yes, I am. It’s fun, isn’t it?”

  “About as fun as a gun in my mouth.”

  I can think of other things that’d be a lot more fun in your mouth. “By law, I’m allowed to start making noise at eight. I know you city folk like to party all night, but nine isn’t that early.”

  “It is when you’re on vacation!”

  There’s something about her that puts me on edge. Maybe it’s my dick straining against my jeans. It hasn’t been used in a while. A mantra runs through my head like a chant: Fuck her. Fuck her. Fuck her.

  Maybe I should. There’s no denying I’m doing all this shit to piss her off, but that’s only because I hate people like her. City slickers. Smug assholes from San Francisco who come to this town in droves because it’s a beautiful spot close to Yosemite. They flood our campsites and trash the place. Then they wave handfuls of cash and expect us to clean up the mess. Sort of the same way she trashed her car and waved money in my face.

  How often does a girl like that come through Fair Oaks?

  I toss the hammer aside and stand. A thrill shoots into my chest as Olivia sucks in her bottom lip. Damn, she’s got perfect lips for a blowjob. Those pink patches still burn on the apples of her cheeks. Her slender neck is just begging for a soft bite. I look down, my cock pulsing at the sight of those peaked nipples and the thin fabric of her pajamas fluttering right over her heart. I could rip those off with one hand.

  “My eyes are up here.”

  Can’t blame a guy for looking. “Sorry.”

  Her gaze narrows at my crapass apology.

  “Come with me. I’ll make you breakfast.” Her hesitation sends a small twinge of pain to my chest. “I won’t stare at your tits. Promise.”

  Olivia pushes my chest, and I’m surprised by her strength. It’s not enough to do anything to me, but still. “Thanks, but I’d rather spend the rest of my morning in peace. You know, without being insulted in every other sentence.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “This is a really charming town. Very quaint. I’m starting to warm up to the place already. I got called a hooker by some man as I walked down the street.”

  She looks furious as I burst into laughter. The sound is strange to hear. “That’s Pierce. He’s a bit—old-fashioned.”

  “I prefer, sexist.”

  “I apologize on Pierce’s behalf. He’s a crotchety old bastard, but he’s harmless.”

  Olivia makes a noise like an angry cat, and suddenly I think of my mother. What she’d say if she saw me treating guests like this.

  I deepen my voice, trying to be gentle for once. “Let me make you breakfast. I’ll be nice. I swear.”

  The daggers in her eyes cut me deeply. “I don’t think so.”

  I spend about fifteen minutes admiring the view of Olivia on her hands and knees through my kitchen window. She’s wearing another pair of those skinny jeans, which are already stained with grass. The weeding thing was kind of a joke, but she didn’t complain when I showed her where to find the gardening gloves. Just went right to it.

  I’m starting to like this girl.

  Too bad she seems to loathe me. I haven’t given her much reason not to. I can’t help it when getting under her skin is too damn fun. Another laugh rips through my throat as Olivia carries the bits of yanked weeds in her hands and hurls them over the fence into the neighbor’s yard. She’s got spirit. And a fine-ass body I’d love to tap.

  I bang on the glass and give her a wave. She looks up, her hair falling around her face, and flips me the bird. Then I head to work. It’s a great day outside, and I find myself smiling in spite of myself. Smiling. The whole fucking town will give me a hard time if someone sees me, so I fix my expression into the permanent scowl everyone’s used to. It’s not easy feeling the warmth from the sun when so many leaves block out the light.

  Hank gives me a double take when I stroll into the garage. “Are you…smiling? Man, that looks weird. Sorry, boss.”

  I grunt something in response, glancing into the shop to see my guys already at work on my customers’ cars. I make out a champagne-colored Benz parked in the spot I reserve for my employees, and a tic of fury jumps in my jaw.

  “Who the fuck is that?”

  Hank winces as he looks in the direction of my finger. “Some guy just pulled up a few minutes ago looking for that woman who was in here yesterday.”

  “Did you tell him he couldn’t park there?”

  “All of us walk to work. Who cares if he parks there?”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Because there’s a perfectly good spot for customers, and that asshole decided to take one of mine.”

  The fucker is inside my office. I can see his blond head peeking out from the blinds.

  “He’s looking for that girl,” Hank says again. “I think he’s her husband, or something.”

  Runaway bride? This should be interesting. “Fine. I’ll talk to him, but then he has to move his damn car.”

  “He seemed pretty pissed off.” Grimacing, Hank adds, “I told him you knew where she was.”

  Great. “Why the hell did you do that?”

  “The guy wouldn’t leave. He knew she’d been here.”

  “You should have told him to fuck off!”

  “That’s bad for our reputation!”

  Since when does that matter? “I’ll deal with him. Go do some work and for God’s sake, keep your mouth shut.”

  My employees scatter like cockroaches as I stomp across the small parking lot toward my office. Whatever’s left of my good mood completely vanishes the moment I rip open the door. A strange man is sitting in my chair.

  I can feel my hair burning.

  The chair bounces back as he stands quicker than if there was a fire under his ass. He squeezes past my desk, grimacing.

  He’s old money. I can’t really pinpoint it on any one thing. Maybe it’s his air of scumbag entitlement combined with his Calvin Klein polo and khaki shorts. He smiles, and I’m momentarily blinded by the whiteness of his teeth. Veneers.

  Good God.

  “Hi, I’m Mark Cranbury.”

  Stupid fucking name.

  He extends a hand, several thick gold rings on his fingers. Class of 2005. Must be a high school ring. I didn’t even know they made high school rings.

  Ignoring the hand, I shut the door behind me. “That’s my seat.”

  Mark takes his hand back, a goofy smile playing on his lips. “Oh, apologies. I was waiting for a while, and the other seat…” he gives the plastic chair a disdainful look.

  “Something wrong?”

  A furtive look. “No, no! Nothing wrong.”

  Fuck Frozen. I’m not letting this go. It might be a dumb thing to be angry about, but I don’t care. He’s under my skin. “Then why did you take my chair?”


  “I have a really bad back and I need proper ergonomics whenever I sit.” He stops suddenly and smiles to himself. “Never mind. You don’t even know what that is.”

  I’ve dealt with people like him. Hell, I run into Cranburys every year when the snow starts falling and the ski resorts open. The rich elite who treat service people like trash, or worse, like we’re empty-headed morons. Fuck them for thinking I’m dumb because I didn’t shell out tens of thousands for a fancy piece of paper on the wall.

  “You think because I’m blue collar, I don’t know what ergonomics is?”

  Flustered, he rakes his hands through his thin hair. I can’t help but notice the lack of a wedding band. So they’re not married. Good.

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “That’s what you meant. Who the hell do you think you are?”

  His eyes roll back to his head before falling to the side. “Whatever, man. It’s been a long drive and I’ve been waiting here for half an hour in the heat with no air-conditioning and nothing to drink in this cramped little place.”

  Wow. Does he not realize that I don’t give a fuck? “Shut the hell up and get out of my office.”

  “Listen, buddy. I don’t know where the hell you come off talking to me like that—”

  I lean forward an inch, and that’s enough to make quiet. “Slow down and try again. The name is sir or Mr. Carter, not buddy.”

  A sneer replaces the brief show of fear. “I’m looking for a woman, Mr. Carter. My fiancé. She stopped by here yesterday to get her car repaired. Her name is Olivia Stewart.”

  There’s no good reason why I shouldn’t help this guy, except for the feeling gripping my stomach. Telling me not to do what I ought to. He’s her fiancé, but she clearly doesn’t want to be found.

  I look at him dead center. “Don’t know an Olivia.”

  A furrow appears in his brow. “That Toyota in your garage is hers. You know, the blue one.”