Chapter One EVERLEIGH

Chapter One

EVERLEIGH

The text comes through after I’ve been waiting for a response for over an hour. Picture it: Me sitting on imaginary pins and needles, anticipating the answer. Throwing one single thought out into the universe and hoping I’ll receive the news I desperately need.

Only for my hopeful anticipation to be tossed into the trash with the ding of a text notification.

Sorry, the room has already been rented.

An actual frustrated growl escapes me, and I glance up quickly, wondering if anyone heard me in the busy coffee shop where I’m currently sitting. But no one is paying attention to me.

Not the moms clad from head to toe in Lululemon who are clustered around a small table not too far from me, a total of four baby strollers beside them.

Not the girls who basically remind me of .?.?. me, sitting at another table, all of them watching as their friend taps out a response to someone I assume is a guy she met on a dating app. She said his response to her reaching out was “I like your tits. And your face.”

Was I listening in on their conversation? Yes. Do I regret it?

No.

By the way, that guy sounds like a douche. She should move on.

The three dude bros sitting at the table directly next to mine are definitely not paying attention to me. Two out of three of them have their hats on backward, and they’re all massively broad in the shoulder and chest area. Like impressively so. Athletes, I would assume, consuming breakfast sandwiches at a breakneck speed and not saying much save for the occasional grunt. Football players, maybe?

I have no clue. I don’t watch sports. And I definitely don’t keep up with the athletic teams at this new college I’m supposed to be attending in less than a week.

Well, there’s no supposed to about it. I’m registered. I’ve picked out my classes, and my schedule is so perfect I could almost cry. I’m a transfer student starting at UC Santa Mira as a junior, and only a few days ago, I was beyond stoked to be coming here. Excited to move into my new apartment with my three other roommates. Eager to make new friends, have new experiences, and just be .?.?. free.

Only for one of those new roommates to reach out the literal day I arrived in this gorgeous beach town with an overly apologetic email (God, I hate email) saying that my new room—well, essentially my new bed because I was sharing a room—had been rented out to someone else. That I was mistakenly offered the room/bed when it was already taken.

Reading that email, my vision blurred with unshed tears. I wanted to cry. Took everything within me not to just break down and sob. But I didn’t.

Chin up, Everleigh Bailey Olmstead. You won’t let this setback get you down. You need to press forward.

My grandmother’s inspirational words are the only thing keeping me going in this life, I swear.

I used some of the precious money I’d saved over the last two years for this new adventure to stay at the cheapest motel I could find, only to be scared and unable to sleep because of the rather nefarious things going on through the night. Like the woman who knocked on my door at one in the morning insisting she was room service. Trust me, there was no room service at this motel. I didn’t open the door, too freaked out to even move as I pressed my back against the headboard, curled into a ball as the insistent knocking went on for far too long.

Now here I am, dragging ass and needing this coffee to rejuvenate me. Student housing in Santa Mira is sparse. I should know. I wrote a paper about the student housing crisis my first year of college, and now I’m a victim of it. I’m homeless.

Homeless.

I can’t adjust my schedule to online only and go back home. I will never hear the end of it if I do. My mother will give me that look and say, “I told you so. Getting too big for your britches gets you nowhere.”

I can literally hear that particular tone in her voice ringing in my mind. The judgmental one. There is no way I can return to the small town I grew up in with my tail tucked between my legs and pretend it’s okay that I’m taking online courses. Because it’s not okay. First, I can’t stand the idea of going back to the place where I grew up, just knowing everyone is watching and waiting for me to fail. And I can’t justify taking courses at UCSM and paying those UC prices while living at home. I wanted an actual experience when I went away to college.

Looks like I’m definitely getting one. Just not the one I’d hoped.

“Fucking Sampson. He’s such a loser,” I hear one of the dude bros mutter before he shoves the remaining half of his breakfast sandwich into his mouth.

My stomach growls, and I take a sip of my scalding-hot coffee, wincing when I burn my tongue. I came in here to feel normal and wake up and bought the cheapest item on the menu, delusional in thinking that a cup of coffee will be a good enough breakfast.

It’s not. I’m starving. And jealous of everyone currently consuming those breakfast sandwiches.

“I knew he’d walk,” another one says, and takes a noisy slurp of his iced whatever. It’s practically white, so I imagine it’s full of sugar and not much caffeine. If these guys are athletes, they’re not taking very good care of their bodies with this meal. “He can’t cut it.”

“Doesn’t help that you gave him so much shit,” says yet another one.

“If he can’t take my shit, how is he going to be able to handle Coach?”

I’m about to tune out this very sports-heavy and boring conversation when one of them says something that has my ears perking up big time.

“Now we’ll have to find someone else to move into his room.” This is said with an exasperated groan. I even catch the guy tossing the rest of his muffin onto a napkin on the table, and I swear I see steam rise from the broken bits.

Oh my God, I am so hungry.

The one who gave poor old Sampson endless shit—I slide my gaze over to check him out, and holy wow, his freaking face makes my breath catch—is glowering at his friend the muffin destroyer. “That shouldn’t be a problem. Empty rooms are a commodity around here.”

“I don’t want to live with someone else,” the muffin man practically whines before he snatches up a chunk of the muffin—looks like blueberry—and shoves it in his mouth. “We had a good thing going.”

“We still do,” Mr. Handsome pretty much growls, and be still my rapidly beating heart. The voice matches the face, and the face is like whoa. Dark hair. Dark eyes. High cheekbones and a strong chin. Even frustrated with his friend and teammate and roommate, there’s a faint smile curling his lips, and it’s a good one.

Mad understatement. It’s a great one.

“Right.” Muffin Man shakes his head, and the other guy at their table just laughs. “I’m going to let you take care of finding a roommate to rent out that room, then. I don’t have time for that shit.”

“I don’t have time for it, either, but I’m sure it won’t be difficult.” Mr. Handsome chooses that moment to glance around the café, and for the briefest moment, our gazes meet. Lock. He doesn’t look away, and neither do I, and on his face appears this slow, downright panty-melting smile that has me dropping my gaze, my cheeks going hot.

Holy hell, this guy is way too good looking. And he knows it.

I keep my focus strictly on the table while I listen to them discuss roommate options as they finish eating. Then all three of them stand, impressively towering above everyone else as they move as one unit toward the door, tossing their trash on the way out.

Within seconds I’m on my feet, following them at a discreet distance, my earlier hunger forgotten. The great thing about Santa Mira is that the college campus is literally in the center of town, and most everything a student needs to get to is within walking or biking distance.

My suspicions are confirmed when they don’t jump into a car and take off. They amble at a leisurely pace down the sidewalk, chatting loudly and gesturing with their hands until they eventually make a left onto a side street that is lined with apartment buildings and the occasional house.

“Should we mention the open room on one of those Facebook groups?” the muffin man asks, his voice ringing loudly.

The handsome one makes a dismissive noise. “Who’s on Facebook anymore besides people as old as our parents?”

“I have a Facebook profile.” Muffin Man sounds offended.

“So do I, but I’m never on it,” Handsome retorts as they all slow in front of a cute older white clapboard house trimmed with black. And there’s an actual porch with a saggy couch that’s definitely seen better days, but I could live with that.

“Then what do you suggest we do to find a new roommate?” asks the other guy, who apparently doesn’t talk much. He’s bigger and broader than the other two, his bulky arms covered in tattoos.

“Ask around, I guess.” Handsome shrugs as they head up the path that leads to the porch, and then all three of them practically run up the stairs. “We’ll find someone. I’m not worried about it.”

He glances over his shoulder as if he can feel my presence, his gaze snagging on mine, and he comes to a stop, turning to fully face me. I start backing up out of pure instinct at being caught.

“Can we help you?” He doesn’t sound hostile. No, he seems downright open. Definitely friendly.

Deliberately charming.

His roommates turn to check me out, the three of them imposing as they stand shoulder to shoulder on their porch.

“Um.” I stop walking, the rest of my words getting caught in my throat. How do I approach this without sounding like a stalker who listens in on their private conversations? “I was in the café earlier—”

“Right.” Handsome interrupts me. “I remember.”

Oh. Did I make an impression?

Probably not.

“And I couldn’t help but .?.?. overhear your conversation?” I wince, feeling bad. My heart is racing and my palms are sweating. I shake them out, and the guys share a look.

One that definitely says What is this girl’s problem?

“What conversation?” the muffin man asks warily.

“About needing a roommate?” I clear my throat. Take a few steps forward, curious to see the inside of the house. Are there enough bedrooms? A decent-size kitchen? I’ll take a sleeping bag on the bathroom floor if I have to. I can’t be picky right now. “I, um, I happen to know someone who needs a room.”

“Who?”

“Me.”