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Claps and whoops come from all around us. “And so is Luke!” he added on.
Warm arms wrapped around me, and in that moment my heart had never been fuller. I realized exactly what I was missing less than five years ago. I was missing the other half of my soul, and now I stood with strong arms wrapped around me, completing my life in a way that most people never experienced.
“I love you.” I whispered to Luke over my shoulder.
“I love you more, and our baby.”
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ROOMIES
By Claire Adams
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 Claire Adams
Chapter One
Room Available
Leila
“Thanks, I still have a few people to interview, but I’ll be sure to give you a call.”
Yeah, right. Even after the guy’s out the door, I’m still choking on his cologne.
I’ve been in Manhattan for less than a month, and my internship isn’t cutting it. You’d think that, even as an intern, working for one of the major stockbrokers in the world would be enough to cover a simple, two-bedroom apartment. You’d think wrong.
The big boss at my company makes something like 2,500 times my salary. Now, I don’t really expect to bring in the millions as an intern, but I should, at least, be able to hold onto an apartment.
You know, I’m really starting to think that my landlord only rented me the place for the eye candy. The way he stares at my chest when he talks to me should have tipped me off, but I was just happy to talk to someone who heard my salary and didn’t laugh in my face.
Right now, I’m going around opening all the windows, hoping to air the place out before my next appointment arrives.
I’m waiting a while.
My final appointment of the day, a Dane Paulson, is already five minutes late.
Maybe he passed the other guy in the hall and had to be wheeled out of the building. I can’t begin to explain how, but opening the windows has only made the lingering stench worse.
I’m in the bathroom, putting drops in to lessen the stinging in my eyes when there’s a knock on the door.
“Just a minute!” I shout.
The last thing I need is for a prospective renter to think I’m some crazy, emotional woman, crying about nothing. Either that would scare him away or make me appear that special kind of vulnerable that the worst kinds of people prey upon.
Neither one is an acceptable option.
I’m at the door one minute and three tissues later.
“Hi,” I say, opening the door. “Here to see the apartment?”
The man on the other side is tall, tattooed, and handsome. His black hair is cut short enough to nicely merge into his scruff. He’s leaning against the door jamb like an antihero from a noir film. He’s got that self-important look with his chocolate brown eyes staring at me that makes it appear like he lives here already and is wondering why it took me so long to answer the door and let him in.
