2. Liam

2

LIAM

I run a manic hand through my hair and walk a path around the open living space I’ve been eyeing, waiting for, yearning for, close to six months now. Finally a chance to live alone again. Quiet. Neat. Organized. Did I mention quiet?

After living for half a year with my brothers Max and Elliot and then just Elliot for another six months, I’m ready to be on my own. Don’t get me wrong, I love my brothers, but loving and living together are two completely different things when none of you share the same idea of what ‘clean’ means.

Elliot’s bar for cleanliness is so low I’m not sure it’s above ground and I’m desperate to be out of there. I’ve already packed. I’ve already carefully planned every square inch of this space because I don’t like surprises.

I look at the intruder, who is desperately leaving a message for the Alldridges, nearly in tears and I don’t know what to do. I’m not so evil that I would throw her out on the street, but I’m not giving up my claim to this place. If we could just figure out who signed the lease first, that would fix it, right?

Except that one of us would still be homeless. Fuck.

I glance at her again as she finishes the message with a concealed sob and my stomach does a little twist when her eyes meet mine. I brush it off as guilt and not because I find her luscious curves, long dark hair, and light green eyes attractive. Nor is it because the freckles across the bridge of her nose and the dampness of her eyes make me want to soothe her.

It’s not that.

But like all men in my family, I can’t seem to stand idle while a woman cries without instantly trying to fix it. Poorly ninety-nine percent of the time…

“Please don’t cry,” I say helpfully, wanting to kick myself as the one sentence that is guaranteed to make her cry more comes out of my mouth.

She swipes at her eyes and glowers at me as if I’d stomped on her foot. “I’m not crying, I’m mad. I cry when I’m mad.”

“So…you’re crying.” Jesus fuck, Liam.

Her hands fly to her hips, and I see her jaw tick. “Do you really want to test what I’m capable of when I’m mad? Stranger that’s never met me and doesn’t know if I have a black belt in, in…something.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling because I’ve already dug a deep enough hole and I don’t need to point out, out loud, that if she did, she’d know what to call it. I rake both hands through my hair. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I don’t always know what to say.”

“Could have fooled me,” she mumbles. Throwing her hands up in the air, she sinks to the floor with her legs criss-crossed and slumps forward with her face in her hands. “What are we going to do?”

I try to look at the situation like any other problem I take on—analytically and thoroughly. “Well, the first thing we should do is see if there is something else open for the month until we know more. One of us can live there until the Alldridges return from Mexico.”

“I can’t afford to pay to stay anywhere else,” she says matter-of-factly. “I used up my last cent to move here. And I don’t get my first paycheck until the first.”

I grimace, seeing how it’s only the fifth. “Okay, the first thing to do is find something open.”

“Can’t you just move back in with your brother?”

Her question makes my fists clench. Yes. I could but I’m not going to. I swear on God that I’ll murder him if I do. “No.” She doesn’t need to know the rest.

She eyes me as if she wants more explanation, but when none is forthcoming, she grabs her bag and pulls out a laptop. “I’ll do some searching.”

“I’ll make some calls.”

“Anything?” She asks me when I finish my final call and sink to the floor against the wall.

I’m so exhausted I can barely lift my head to look at her. “Not a thing. Nothing for sale anywhere within a hundred miles. You?” The question is a formality—I can tell by her expression that she struck out too.

She shakes her head. “The best anyone could do for me was October of next year.”

“That’s nearly a year away,” I point out helpfully.

“Yes, I know how time works.”

We both fall silent for several minutes. I stare at the floor, seeing only one solution staring back and I don’t think either of us is excited about the prospects.

I open and close my mouth six times before I can get the words out. “How about we figure out a way to share? Just for the month. Just until we can get things figured out, I know one of the other units here is under construction, maybe one of us can get a deal out of this mishap.”

“I don’t want to share,” she answers honestly and when I meet her gaze I can see she’s just as torn about the loss of this apartment as I am.

“Neither do I.”

Silence fills the space around us.

“But,” she goes on after chewing on her lip for a second. “I don’t see any other way to work around this. There’s two bedrooms, plenty of space for us to keep to ourselves. But,” her voice turns serious. “We need ground rules.”

“I agree,” I say quickly, just relieved to have come to some sort of agreement that doesn’t include me moving back into Asshole Court. I pull the small notebook and pen out of my shirt pocket that I always carry around. “Let’s make a list.”

“Nerd much?” She asks, eyeing me from across the room as if I snorted and pushed imaginary taped-together glasses up my nose.

I ignore her comment. Living to be nearly forty with two dickheads for brothers will get you over those kind of comments very quickly. “First of all, my name is Liam Sutton. I own Redpoint Brewery right across the street with my brothers Elliot and Max.”

“Oh, you own Redpoint?” Her eyes brighten. “I’ve heard so many amazing things about that place.”

Allowing myself to enjoy the compliment, I smile. “We’re doing well.”

We stare at each other for a moment before she realizes she hasn’t told me anything about her. “Oh.” She touches her chest as if she’s talking to a man raised by monkeys who might not understand human communication. “I’m Marley Green. I was hired to try and resurrect the Paintbrush Post. I don’t know a single other person here other than you.” She nudges the pet carrier I’ve been too preoccupied to notice with her foot. “This is Steven. Whenever we move, he hides for at least a week. You might not see him for a while but I promise he’s real.”

“And who or what is Steven?” I ask, hoping it’s not a dog because I’m severely allergic and I don’t want to end up with my eyes swollen shut like the last time I encountered a canine.

“Steven is a tuxedo cat,” she answers, smiling a little as she talks about him. “He is very fancy. Very particular. And my soul mate.”

I laugh, mostly because I’m relieved it’s not a dog or a snake or some other exotic and terrifying animal. “Good, I’m not allergic to cats.”

She eyes me. “You do look like someone that’s allergic to many things.”

I don’t know if that’s a compliment and I don’t want to ask, so I change the subject. “You’re a journalist?” I ask, unsure why I’m fishing for more info when I don’t necessarily need it.

“Trying to be,” she sighs. “I’ve done a lot of writing that pays the bills that I wouldn’t necessarily classify as journalism, so I’m glad to be taking on something real.” She knits her fingers together and I guess from her body language that she’s nervous about doing a good job.

Against my better judgment, I’d like to know why, but I let it go. I write LIAM AND MARLEY APARTMENT RULES across the top of a sheet of my notebook. “All right. Let’s start with the basics. Schedule is number one since we’re sharing a bathroom. What time do you think you’ll get up each morning?”

She shrugs. “I have to be to work by nine, so probably eight. I’m not known for being an early riser, especially on weekends and I don’t usually spend a lot of time with hair or makeup.”

I feel my body relax a little, “That will work perfectly. I usually get up for an early morning run and will have showered by eight.”

Her face crumples with disgust at the same time her eyebrows ascend her forehead, “I’m sorry, did you say early morning run?”

“Yes. Every day.”

She pretends to gag. “You know that you don’t have to do that, right? I mean, unless you’re being chased by a bear or a murderer, you don’t need to practice running.”

I bite back a smile. “Yes, I’m aware. It actually helps me clear my mind.” I don’t add that I’ve been using it as therapy since my mother died fifteen years ago because that’s my business.

“Well, you do you, I guess,” she sighs. “On to laundry. Let’s split the week. I’ll take Sunday through Wednesday, and you take Thursday through Saturday?”

“Sure.” I jot that down. “Cleaning. I will admit that I like my space to be very clean. If you’re okay with letting me take care of my space and the bathroom, I’d appreciate it. We can share the rest.”

“Am I okay with you cleaning the bathroom? Uh. Yes. One hundred percent. I’ll keep my bedroom clean, and we’ll share the rest like you said.”

I study her face, trying to decipher how messy she’ll be. It’s been my experience that creative people—like Elliot—can be walking tornados. Call me rigid, but I love an orderly, spotless existence.

The coffee stains on her sweatshirt alone tell me probably more than she realizes and I groan internally as I imagine cleaning up her future messes. It’s fine, I tell myself, anyone is still a thousand times better than Elliot.

“Oh,” she announces as if she just had an idea. “And no romance or touching. I’m your roommate, not your fuckbuddy.”

I flinch in response because the thought hadn’t even occurred to me, but now that it has, all I can think about is how close our bedrooms are.

Fuck me . This just got harder.