Accidental Roommate Read online

  “Maya.” My mother’s voice startled me, and I jumped up as if I’d been caught sneaking out. “Dinner! The kids won’t wait any longer.”

  “Coming!” I shouted.

  I smoothed my hair and hopped to my feet, moving toward the door. I stopped to catch my reflection in the mirror and stared at my pink-cheeked, dark-eyed face. A face that made Ethan smile, that he thought pretty enough to kiss like he meant it. The thought made me smile, and I moved an absent-minded finger to touch my mouth.

  “Maya, for goodness sake!”

  “Coming,” I shouted again as I heard the unmistakable sound of glass shattering. I cringed and darted out of my room to dinner.

  2

  Maya

  “Utilities included, brand-new hardwood floors, and of course, a location that can’t be beat!”

  The broker’s cheerful voice echoed off the marble-lined hallway as she led me through the Upper East Side apartment complex. We’d been greeted outside under a long green awning by a sharply dressed doorman, who’d welcomed us into the building with white-gloved hands. I’d never so much as stepped foot in the kind of New York apartments that featured a doorman, certainly not for an apartment showing, but to be honest, I was getting a little desperate. I had a suspicion that the deal the realtor had promised me on this place—in rather short notice—was too good to be true. But after viewing eight other apartments that were either health hazards, or an hour and a half from my new job, I was willing to try anything.

  My cell lit up and vibrated in my hand. A text message from my brother, Ricky.

  How’s apartment hunting going?

  I typed a response on the sly while the broker had her back turned.

  Not great. We’re on the third showing today, and so far, nothing.

  Keep your chin up. A great place might come up soon.

  I sighed and tucked my phone inside my purse.

  “How much did you say rent was on this place again?” I asked, taking in the sleek wood paneling as my heels clicked against the waxed floor. The building wasn’t brand new, but it had been well maintained and boasted all the old-money charm Upper East Side apartments were so famous for.

  “Your portion would be nine hundred a month,” the broker responded, her blonde bob swinging with every step. I resisted the urge to laugh out loud. Nine hundred a month was barely within my means, but I knew without having to ask, that apartments like these went for an alarmingly large slice of my annual salary. There was no way I was seeing the whole picture here.

  “And the rent discount is in exchange for house sitting? That’s it?”

  “The current tenant does a lot of traveling for work, often unpredictable. He told me he would feel better if he knew the person he hired to take care of the apartment while he was out of town, so a live-in arrangement seemed ideal. This just came in. If I were you, I wouldn’t miss the opportunity. This place will be gone in no time.”

  “You sure this guy isn’t looking for a live-in maid or some kind of sex slave?”

  The broker smiled at my joke, but her eyes glinted in a way that told me it wasn’t very funny. Sheesh. I wondered what kind of crazy stuff she’d seen on the job.

  “Here we are.” The broker tapped briskly against the door. Inside, a male voice echoed toward us.

  “I’m in the kitchen.”

  My guide slotted her key into the door and shouldered it open, welcoming me inside with a saleswoman’s smile.

  The loft was beyond beautiful, decorated in chic swatches of muted gray and blue, with brick accent walls that had been artfully exposed. Huge windows let in the hazy golden light of New York nearing sunset, and the view from the living room was enough to give me vertigo. Spires of concrete, brick, plaster, and glass stretched out beneath us. In the distance, the greenery of Central Park beckoned.

  The broker was droning on about lease terms, but I barely heard her. I was too busy drinking in the luxury around me, from the lambskin leather sofa, to the soothing modern art hanging over the fireplace, to the staircase that twisted up to the bedroom level. My freshly minted degree in art history, and the many hours I’d spent gazing longingly into high-end interior shops tipped me off to the fact that the apartment had probably been furnished by an interior designer, but I had to admit, they’d done a wonderful job.

  All of the décor, from the shined loafers sitting next to the door, to the wood Joe Malone candle that burned on the mantle, gave the space a warm, masculine air. Something about standing in that living room made me feel like I was trespassing into an intimate space, the very private retreat of a man of exquisite taste.

  I glanced down to the coffee table and saw that a silk tie had been discarded next to a sweating glass of ice water. My throat went dry, and my cheeks felt a little hot. Chill out, I chided myself. It’s not like this guy has invited you over for after-dinner drinks or anything. Keep it together.

  I shook off my stupefied admiration of the apartment when I realized there were voices murmuring behind me in conversation. I should go introduce myself, make a good impression on whoever was living in this gorgeous place. I straightened my black pencil skirt and turned to face the man chatting in the kitchen with the broker.

  He was leaning against the kitchen counter with a steaming cappuccino in his hand, treating the broker to a megawatt smile. The sleeves on his crisp white shirt were rolled up to reveal muscular forearms covered in tattoos, and the dissonance between his classy style and inked skin was nothing short of mouthwatering. His hair was dark as was the stubble along his chiseled jaw, and when he glanced over to me, hazel eyes appraising, my heart stopped.

  No. It’s not possible.

  His eyes gleamed with interest, and his mouth tugged at the corner with a smirk of recognition. His shoulders had broadened with age, and he’d lost that anxious energy that teenage boys carried around with them—but I would recognize him anywhere. I felt the moment when my face flushed red, and the room tilted on its axis.

  There’s no way. You’ve got to be kidding me…

  “Maya,” the broker said, sweeping a hand toward the man who’d broken my eighteen-year-old heart. “This is Mr. Ethan Gladwell. Mr. Gladwell, Miss Maya St. James.”

  Ethan smiled at me, revealing his gorgeous teeth, and I remembered how those teeth had flashed at me in the dark in the front seat of his Camry, right before he’d leaned in to give me my first kiss.

  “Oh, we’ve met,” Ethan said and raised an amused-looking brow.

  3

  Ethan

  Maya St. James was the last woman I’d ever expected to see walk back into my life. I’d left without even saying goodbye all those years ago, and neither of us had remained in contact. But there she was, standing in my kitchen, as pretty as she’d been at eighteen, but with the angled cheekbones and curvaceous figure of a woman. Her silky black hair hung down her back, and her legs looked about a mile long in those sheer stockings. If she’d been a looker at eighteen, she was a knockout now.

  I took a long sip from my mug and drank her in. I’d never been a big believer in fate, preferring to put my faith in hard work and the occasional lucky windfall, but this was too perfect to be a simple coincidence.

  “Oh,” the broker said in a perky tone, eyes lit up in the hopes of an easy sale. “You two know each other—how nice!”

  I hadn’t bothered to learn her name, but she was the usual fast-talking, over-eager Manhattan type. I’d grown accustomed to people like her since moving to the city and had done business with plenty of them, but I wasn’t one for all that persuasive-type bullshit. I preferred my exchanges—whether personal, professional, or sexual—courteous but to the point.

  Maya was staring at me, her soft brown eyes big and doe-like. I remembered the last time she’d stared at me like that. In my car. I’d been twenty, my hands in her hair, her sugary perfume enveloping me when I’d kissed her. She’d made soft, breathless sounds and pressed her tits against me as she wrapped her arms around my neck. I could almost ta
ste that sticky, passion fruit lip gloss she’d been wearing that night.

  “Just old acquaintances,” I said, and her cheeks flushed pink.

  “Uh…” Her voice sounded throaty, dry. “Ethan and I went to school together. Well, not exactly—he graduated with my brother. Two years ahead.”

  “What a fortunate circumstance,” the broker said, light reflecting off her bleached-white teeth. “I bet you two would be a perfect fit for each other.”

  Maya made a strangled sound.

  I smirked into my cappuccino.

  “Oh,” the realtor exclaimed, realizing her innuendo. “I mean, as roommates, of course. You know what they say: it’s always smarter to live with someone you know.”

  Maya hooked her long hair behind her ears, an agitated tell I recognized from our youth together. Maya had never realized it, but I’d noticed her for a while before our “indiscretion” in my car, whether she was working on her homework at the kitchen table at Rick’s, or walking past me in the school hallways, bobbing along to a song playing in her earbuds. I’d never pursued her, though. Well, except for that one time. That one kiss.

  “Well, we hardly know each other anymore,” she said in a dismissive tone. “Although it is so easy to forget names and faces, things like that. Especially after almost five years.”

  She was still angry with me, that much was obvious, and I didn’t blame her. I hadn’t exactly given her much warning before skipping town, never to be heard from again. Until now.

  “Can I make either of you a drink?” I addressed the room, but never took my eyes off Maya. It was hard not to stare at her, standing beautiful and ramrod straight in my kitchen, like she belonged there, like she’d been there for years. Her shiny black hair matched the dark tiles on the kitchen backsplash, and the track lighting made her skin glow. She looked perfect.

  “Decaf, if you have it,” the broker said, her voice cheerful, almost too cheerful.

  Maya watched me, tight-lipped while I pushed some buttons on the elaborate chrome espresso machine that had come with the apartment. Every single appliance in the house was as up to date and as luxurious as money could buy—I had insisted on it. After a childhood spent in relative poverty, I had no interest in sparing expenses.

  “Espresso for you?” I asked the young woman glaring at me from across the room.

  “No, thank you.”

  I had no interest in beating around the bush. I firmly believed in asking what you wanted up-front and, barring that, taking it. “Still take it with frothed milk and sugar?” I took her silence as confirmation.

  I handed the broker her de-fanged coffee, while steaming hot espresso dripped into a cup for Maya, and I leaned against the counter, looking at her from head to toe.

  “So, what do you think of the place? Up to your standards? If I remember correctly, you always had a bit of an artistic eye.”

  She crossed her arms, refusing to come any closer to me. If pleasant conversation and the seductive scent of coffee wasn’t enough to entice her, I wasn’t above finding another way.

  “I don’t usually go for ultra-modern interiors,” she said. She was trying too hard to seem unimpressed, but I’d seen the wonder in her eyes when she’d first turned around to say hello. I knew where we’d both come from, and I knew Maya had grown up dreaming about an unattainable lifestyle on the Upper East Side. “They tend to age poorly. But for what you have to work with…” Her shoulders sagged a bit, and her eyes softened. She couldn’t resist the elegance of the apartment for long. “It’s lovely. And the view is—”

  “Spectacular,” the broker interrupted with that damn cheery voice again, getting on my last fucking nerve.

  I needed to be alone with Maya. I had to close the gaping five years between us as soon as possible, learn the sound of her voice again and find out what she’d been up to all this time. The broker’s phone chirped out a classic song, and she fidgeted with it in her hands.

  “It’s one of my other clients, nothing serious.”

  I could tell from the way her manicured nails tapped against the screen that she was one of those types who were loathed to let their calls go to voicemail. She probably checked her email in her sleep.

  I inclined my head toward her phone. “Go ahead and take it.”

  “Oh, but we still need to do the tour of the apartment—”

  “I’m perfectly capable of showing the young lady all the amenities. It’ll give us a chance to catch up.”

  “If you’re sure—”

  Her mind was already made up, she was just stalling for courtesies’ sake. After three years spent investing money on behalf of people with excellent poker faces, I’d learned to recognize the exact moment someone folded to one of my suggestions.

  “I insist.”

  The broker gave a small smile, and then a moment later, she was gone, her heels click-clacking as she excused herself to the outer hallway, raising her phone to her ear. Maya and I were left alone, her cheeks the color of rose petals, two little worry lines knitting her brows together as she eyed me cautiously.

  I pushed the perfectly prepared espresso across the counter to her, hoping the fern leaf I’d poured into the foam wasn’t too much. Somehow, I doubted it. I’d always been an up-front sort of guy, and if our past together was any indicator, Maya liked that just fine.

  I smiled and leaned against the counter. “Good to see you again.”

  4

  Maya

  I stared blankly at Ethan across the kitchen island, because really, what else could I do? The last time I’d seen him, he’d been a cocky high school grad with no prospects to speak of, struggling to scrape rent money together, while he worked on some mysterious “entrepreneurial endeavor.” The one that kept him from enrolling in the local community college.

  Now he was someone entirely different.

  “Did you miss me?” He raised a questioning brow with a smirk.

  Well, not entirely different. He was still cocky.

  I picked up the small mug of espresso without thinking, because that’s what you did when someone handed you a drink and you had no idea what to do with your hands. I wasn’t sure if it was the warmth of the coffee spreading through my fingers or something else altogether, but I felt overheated, like I was standing in a greenhouse. I wondered if the heat was radiating from Ethan in his cut-so-sharp-they-had-to-be-tailored chinos, but I dispelled those creeping thoughts with a shake of my head. Down, girl. No way are you falling back into his web, not after what he did to you.

  “Can’t miss something you never had.” I was hoping it would come out as a scathing burn, but it just sounded lame. We both knew my tough-girl act was just that, an act. I’d never been able to maintain the bitch face for too long where he was concerned.

  Ethan gave me a private, infuriating knowing smile and moved smoothly around the counter to stand in front of me. This close, I could smell his cologne, a light-handed swirl of cedar and vetiver that had the perfect symmetry of an expensive brand. Tom Ford, maybe, or a boutique designer.

  Ethan took my cup between his fingers and gently raised it to my mouth, the way a lover would, feeding her a cream puff. My stupid hands followed him, and my idiot mouth parted, much to my irritation. I wanted to fight him, to give him a piece of my mind, but the shock made me compliant. That and his undisputable, quintessential Ethan-ness, the high I’d been chasing from boyfriend to boyfriend my entire adult life and could never quite recapture.

  “How’s the coffee?” he asked, voice as pleasing and raspy as the stubble along his jaw. I ran my tongue along my top lip to lap up a bit of foam, never breaking eye contact with him. It tasted better than heaven, boldly flavored and rich as chocolate. He’d lightly sweetened it with some sort of rough-cut black sugar that probably cost hundreds of dollars on the ounce, and I hated to admit, it may have been the best macchiato of my life.

  “It’s all right.”

  “Just all right?”

  I shrugged. “I prefer my coffee made
by people with a habit of not leaving town without a word, but you take what you can get.”

  Ethan chuckled, a warm rumble that sent heat coiling through my stomach. He reached out to brush a flyaway strand of hair out of my face, and the touch of his thumb against my cheekbone brought back a flood of memories. I’d imagined his hands on me in my private moments more often than I would admit to in a court of law, and all this physical closeness was the last thing I needed.

  The touch only lasted for a moment, and then his hands disappeared into the pockets of his pants. He casually rocked back on his heels, as though fixing my hair had just been a favor and not a sentimental gesture. Had it been? He was so hard to read.

  My first instinct was to leave, to turn right around and march back into the elevator. But running away was for little girls, and I’d grown up quite a bit since Ethan had first laid eyes on me. I promised myself I would be mature, polite, and look for a way to excuse myself from this situation as quickly as possible.

  “Really, how have you been? So, it’s been 5 years.”

  I took a sip of coffee. “Almost.”

  “What have you been up to? And how’s college? Living up to your starry-eyed expectations?”

  His barrage of questions threatened to uncover all the details of my personal life I had every intention of keeping under lock and key from him. He had an effect that was not unlike a steamroller, pressing people for the information he wanted when it didn’t come at a speed he deemed efficient, and damn anyone who couldn’t keep up with him. I wouldn’t be tricked into playing his game.

  I couldn’t resist one more sip of the macchiato, but then I set it down on the counter with a defiant clang.