Good Girl : An Enemies-to-Lovers, Roommate Romance (Alphahole Roommates Book 2), page 18
“Where’s my nap pack? Uh oh!”
“Right here, Braeden,” I say and pass him the blue knapsack that’s hanging from one of the kitchen cabinet knobs.
“Oh, thank you, Auntie Jada.”
“I’m not your auntie, sweetie,” I correct.
He waves his hand. “You will be.”
I laugh nervously.
Adele laughs. “See. He sees it too.”
“Sees what?” Braeden asks.
“Why do you think Jada will be your auntie?” Adele asks.
“Because you two are gonna be good friends, I can tell, and you always tell me to call your good friends auntie.”
“Ah,” I say, feeling a little better about that.
“Besides,” he adds, “Maybe you’ll marry Unco Ausben and then you’ll be my auntie like Carly’s my auntie.”
Adele laughs and ruffles his hair giving me a look that screams, “See?”
“Not likely, little man,” I say.
“Unco Ayben and Auntie Carly lived in the same apart-a-ment and said they weren’t gonna get married and look at them!”
“You do have a point, Bray,” Adele observes, zipping up her diaper bag and getting her baby carrier ready to go on.
“Not everyone who lives in the same apartment gets married,” I say.
“That’s true,” Braeden says, like he’s got wisdom beyond his years. “I need to go to the baff-room before we go, Mom.”
“Okay, baby boy. Go to the big bathroom and make sure I didn’t forget any of my stuff in there, like your toothbrush, okay?”
“Okay.”
***
“Can I call you Auntie Jada even if you don’t marry my unco?”
“That’s up to your mom,” I say.
“Of course it’s fine with her,” he waves his little hand and squeezes me one more time.
“Your kids are the cutest, Adele,” I tell her.
She smiles. “You have my number. Let me know if I have to come back here and kick Auz’s ass.”
I laugh and then tickle Lilly’s cheek before I pass Adele the cart holding her luggage and stroller.
I wave goodbye one more time before they disappear out of sight to board their flight and then grab a taxi back to the condo and arrive mid-afternoon. I took steaks out of the freezer before we left. I check on their thawing progress and then prep potatoes and brussels sprouts to go into the oven, too. I run the vacuum, empty the dishwasher, change the beds, and tidy Austin’s as well as the main bathroom before I set my laptop up on the island and put some music on.
Time to write.
I can’t make myself start something new and I am far too addicted to that Austin smut I’m writing, so I decide to bid on some freelance gigs. Maybe if I do something else, it will spark some new ideas.
I also decide to keep my distance from Austin. I plan to do everything I can to avoid him as much as possible this week. And, going forward.
I make sure I’m in my room at five o’clock. I’ve got his dinner on the top shelf in the fridge, his lunch bag packed for the morning.
***
It’s Monday evening and I’ve held off with my need to pee for almost half an hour until I surmise he’s most likely in the master bedroom because there’s no noise, not even the TV.
I held it, wishing this room still had that ensuite Aiden took out to make the master bathroom bigger. Unable to wait any longer, I dash quick in and out of the bathroom and go to bed early.
Phew. I managed to avoid him all day.
***
Tuesday, I work some more on the Austin smut story (because I can’t help myself) and then I go out for a long walk in the park to clear my head in the afternoon. It works wonders for my creativity and I go back to the apartment and while putting together a lasagna and Caesar salad for dinner, I decide I’ll also pop a piece of lasagna into his lunch for the next day. I’ve thought smart and bought a second lunch bag so that I don’t have to wait for his bag in the evenings to pack his lunch. My two lunch bag system will mean that as long as one of them is on the hook by the door, I’ll be good to prep lunch when I prep dinner and continue my avoid-Austin efforts.
While walking today, I saw a young couple arguing in the park. She looked furious and he looked sorry. There was some sort of grovel happening there and I had to keep moving so I didn’t get to see how it turned out, but her eyes were softening so I’m thinking good things.
I came up with an idea for a romance story based on a misunderstanding. The couple in the park were both good-looking and so I finally start working on a story about characters I could envision, looking nothing like Austin, nothing like me.
***
Wednesday, I have a similar schedule as Tuesday. I clean in the morning, go out in the afternoon for a walk and to hit the butcher shop to pick up some chicken for tonight, and then my last stop is the deli for some sandwich fixings. I make a roasted stuffed chicken and some roasted potatoes with glazed carrots for dinner and then put some aside for chicken salad on croissants for myself and him for lunch the next day. He hasn’t gotten in by the time I’m in bed, so I gather he’s worked late, or he’s gone out.
In the morning, like usual, I see that his lunch is gone and the plate and cutlery from the night before as well as the coffee mug from the morning are in the dishwasher.
A great thing about working for Austin Carmichael is that he’s tidy. Aiden wasn’t. Not remotely. Working for Aiden was like cleaning up after a pack of zoo monkeys who’d been given props. The only thing that saved me was that the apartment isn’t huge and he never cooked.
Austin rinses his dishes and puts them in the dishwasher. His dishes come home in his lunch bag washed. The other night he must have made a late-night sandwich because there were extra things in the dishwasher. There were no crumbs on the counter, though. He doesn’t leave dishes out, he uses coasters for his glasses, he even makes his own bed, hangs up his wet towels, and throws his laundry into the hampers.
He’s a rare breed of single hot male, that’s for sure.
Like it was with Aiden, it’s the same with Austin though – doing their laundry feels intimate. Folding the boxer briefs. Rolling socks together. Putting things in their closets or the dresser drawers.
But there’s something peculiar going on with me that has me feeling guilty. I’m just relieved that Austin clearly isn’t using a nanny cam in this condo, because if he were, I’d surely be fired or taken in for psychiatric evaluation. Because I have this habit with Austin’s laundry that I didn’t have with Aiden’s.
Smelling Austin’s shirts before I wash them.
I’ve done his laundry twice now and didn’t do it the first time, but when I tackled his laundry Wednesday morning, I had this odd urge to smell every shirt before I put it in the washing machine. I smelled each one by inhaling deep, by even rubbing one of the t-shirts over my cheek, before dropping it in the machine.
Okay, so I’m a little perverted and creepy – writing stories about a fictional Austin (based on the real one) who wants me (despite the grouchiness) and sniffing his shirts. I probably need to stop this. All of this.
But yeah, clearly I’m a perv.
A perv who has had hardly any inspiration to write any of the stories I’ve started except for one. That one.
***
Thursday, I almost successfully avoid seeing him. I’m typing up my email with my expenses for the week at the island when I hear the door open. Shit. He’s home early.
“Hey,” he greets.
“Oh. Hi.”
“What’s for dinner?” he asks, hanging his jacket and lunch bag up.
“Pot roast,” I say.
He smiles and wrings his hands. “Ooh. It’s ready?”
“Yeah, actually. You’re early so it’s probably not even cooled down yet. You want it now?”
“I’m starved. Can you make me a roast beef sandwich for lunch tomorrow?”
“I already did,” I say.
He smiles brightly. “Mustard?”
“Oh, I made it with gravy and cheese. Just a bit of gravy. Not enough to make the bread soggy. I can add mustard.”
I head to the fridge.
“It’s okay. I’ll add mustard to it at the office. Gravy and cheese sounds good. You’re a great cook, Jada.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
A compliment. Wow.
Weird.
I pull out the mustard and reach into the drawer for the package of disposable condiment cups with lids I bought to use in his lunches. I fill one with mustard and pop the lid on and then put it into his lunch bag.
“You probably don’t need to keep giving me Snickers protein bars, by the way. I have four of them in my desk now.”
“Oh. At least you won’t have any chance of getting hangry,” I quip.
He laughs.
My face heats as I try not to react.
I pull his dinner out of the fridge and keep my eyes downcast.
Him laughing has done funny things to my belly and I don’t want him to know that.
“Still warm,” I say and set it on a placemat by the stool I know he prefers. I grab him some cutlery and a napkin. “I only put it in the fridge five minutes ago.”
He rolls the sleeves of his soft-looking grey button-down shirt to his elbows, then washes his hands and gets a beer from the fridge.
I quickly gather up my laptop and phone and head toward my room.
“You eat already?” he calls out.
“I have, yeah.”
“Oh.” He looks disappointed. “Okay. Thanks, Jada. We got any horseradish?”
“Yeah. I bought some.” I head back his way.
“I’ll get it. Where is it?”
“It’s in the door of the fridge.”
“Cool,” he says.
I go into my room and shut the door. I’m out of breath. My heart is racing. And part of the reason why is him asking if ‘we’ have horseradish.
We.
I shake it off and then I open my laptop and an hour later, I’ve written eighteen hundred more words. But not for my misunderstanding romance that was inspired by the couple in the park. Nope… I write eighteen hundred words for my Austin smut. If I could take my Austin word count and apply it to my other story, I’d be nearly done writing my first novel.
And it’s not a smutty half-chapter I write, either. It’s a sweet one.
I am such a moron. A perverted shirt-sniffing, smut-writing moron.
22
Austin
I get home early for the second day in a row. It’s just past four o’clock and I had a case of “fuck it” at the office and decided to bring my laptop home to work and get some peace and quiet to help me finish digging through this audit. It’s Friday and I know Sienna got arrested today, so that’s also got my mind off my game.
That, and the staff seemed restless. I know the mood in the office has been shitty all week, so I bought the office pizza for lunch today and handed out hundred-dollar preloaded credit cards to everyone to thank them for being so helpful as I’ve bombarded them all with questions for my audit.
This perked the mood up and got them buzzing with activity to the degree that the noise got to me.
I walk into the apartment and there’s music playing. Shitty pop music. I’m a classic rock guy. The smell of lemon hangs in the air and I see a burnt-out candle by her laptop there on the granite island. Beyond the scent of the candle, there’s another smell. I smell something good.
Jada’s bedroom door is open. She’s not in there. The bathroom door is open. I peek into the laundry room and finally the master bedroom and bathroom. No Jada.
I check the oven. Whatever it is, it’s on warm. I lift the corner of the foil over the long casserole dish and it’s looking like enchiladas. My mouth waters. I lift a lid on a pot on the back of the stove and there’s a pot of Spanish rice with beans.
My stomach growls.
This girl can cook.
I haven’t had any complaints since the food poisoning, other than that she hasn’t made me fajitas again yet. The fact that I’ve been at my desk so many hours a day and not doing enough working out, I am gonna need to take time this weekend to find a local gym to join because my quick nighttime bedroom workouts aren’t gonna cut it with these menus. This girl is gonna get me fat. It’s like she’s killing me with food. In the best way. She hasn’t cooked the same thing twice. Some of the best meals I’ve had in years have been in the past week. She’s packed me leftovers for lunch a few times too, and I’ve not been disappointed yet. I should probably tell her to cook leaner food for me, but I’ve been enjoying it too much.
I wonder where she is.
I’m starved and this food is ready, so I decide to serve myself.
Once I’ve washed my hands and loaded my plate up with two big enchiladas and rice as well as gotten myself a beer, I sit it down at the island.
I don’t bother to change my clothes, today is casual Friday so I’m in jeans and a black Bob Marley concert t-shirt with long white sleeves.
I dig into the food while scrolling on my phone.
Something catches my eye. I’ve grazed her computer keyboard with my elbow and the screen has come to life.
It’s her desktop I’m looking at, and unlike how she has her life – organized (even her room is clean, not that I’ve gone in but today I was pleased, for some weird reason, to see from the doorway that it’s tidy) but this desktop is a fucking mess.
Doesn’t she know that having all these files saved here will slow her system down? Every inch of the desktop screen is filled with icons, thumbnails, and shortcuts.
Why wouldn’t she organize it into subfolders at least?
I don’t know why I’m irritated by this.
She’s got pictures, PDF files, software shortcuts, and a whack of Excel spreadsheets and Word documents on here.
I see a spreadsheet named, Austin Carmichael Expenses.
Shit. I have to pay her today. I wanted to watch her actions closely so emailed Alice and told her to take her off payroll and let me handle the weekly deposits, that I’ll add them to my expense report. Looking at my phone, she emailed me last night with the details of her expenses. I also got a credit card for her, too, today at the bank when I picked up the loaded Visa cards.
I take a bite of rice. It’s good. It’s fucking good. And then I dig into the enchilada. Beef and beans. With vegetables and mounds of cheese. It’s delicious. I take another big bite and scroll the spreadsheet of her expenses on the phone. I don’t see the cab fare for when she brought lunch on that first morning. The grocery line item is also too low for what I’ve been fed this week. The fridge is full. Is she being some sort of martyr?
I pay her with a bank transfer from my own account and I add on an extra three hundred bucks for the food and cab fares and then take another bite of food.
Her screen goes dark again. I run my finger over the mousepad and it comes back on.
And then out of annoyance and my mild OCD tendencies, I lean over and right click her mouse and tap ‘sort by’ and then select name.
The screen rearranges into alphabetical order and my eyes land on the Austin Carmichael Expenses spreadsheet. Next to it, there’s a Microsoft Word document and it’s called Austin Smut.
I blink hard, wipe my eyes, and look again to make sure I’m not seeing things.
Austin Smut?
What the fuck?
23
Jada
I’m out of breath coming into the condo. Oh. He’s here. He’s early. Why is he early?
He’s sitting on a stool at the island and his eyes are pointed at my screen. My laptop screen.
He’s got a plate of dinner beside him. His eyes… They are on my screen.
Oh. My. Fucking. Shit.
No.
No.
No, no, no, no, NO.
It’s over.
I will die of embarrassment right here, right now.
Dead. Gone. Bye-bye, Jada.
He licks his lips and then looks like he’s mentally counting.
I stand there, frozen in my shame. Frozen in my utter and complete disgrace.
“Where were you?” he asks, eyes still on my screen.
I’m floored. What an odd thing for him to lead with.
I know he knows. I can see it in his eyes. I know by his tone. I don’t know how to measure what I see but I know what I’m seeing is there because of what he’s read.
I hold the bag up.
“Avocados.”
“Why?” he asks calmly. Too calmly.
“To make you some guac.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t like guacamole.”
“Oh,” I say.
His eyes move to me slowly. Very slowly.
He shakes his head, looking at me like he’s about to… to what? Tell me to get out? Explode? What?
“You’d better get over here,” he announces and then he rolls his eyes.
“I what?”
“Right now,” he demands, pointing to the floor in front of him.
I bristle.
His chest is falling and rising like he’s mentally counting, trying to calm himself down.
Someone talking to me like this would typically, what… send me running away screaming? Make me run straight up and do just what I’ve been told?
I don’t know.
But right now, I want to give him the middle finger. Right now I want to swear at him. Or maybe burst out crying because I’m sure he’s read things I never dreamed he’d read.
I also want to curl into a ball and cry out of embarrassment.
But I can’t move. I can’t freaking move. I’m rooted in place. Because my brain can’t unravel itself after the shock of seeing him with his eyes on my laptop screen short-circuited my brain.
What on earth would possess me to leave that laptop out here?
He’s never been home this early before, and the guac afterthought just hit me and I was only gone no more than thirty minutes to buy that avocado from the bodega a couple blocks away. He’s usually not home for at least a few more hours.
But how could I do that? And even though I did, in fact leave that out, I know that the highly offensive offending document wasn’t open. I haven’t opened it today.
