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Chapter 2
Danica
“I feel like I was just mom-bombed.”
Me:Are you really sure this is okay? My brother can be annoying and pushy. You wouldn’t be the first person who wanted to murder him because of it.
Ryan:LOL it’s fine, I swear! I’ve never actually had a roommate before though, so are YOU sure?
Leaning my back against the wall of the elevator as it slowly makes its decent to the lobby, I look up from my phone and sigh as I stare at my reflection in the doors. With my jet-black hair and bright-red tips, full sleeve of tattoos, and nose ring, it will probably be a miracle if Ryan doesn’t take one look at me and then slam his door in my face. He’s friends with Tristan, which immediately puts a black mark on his record. I’m sure they share the same judgmental, selfish, douchebag brain.
AmI sure about moving in with a complete stranger?
Although I guess technically Ryan Hutton isn’t really a stranger. Tristan said I met him before. Too bad I remember nothing about it. It happened the one and only time we went to visit him in college when I was fifteen, because our dad had just made a hefty donation to the school. He only showed his face so everyone could kiss his ass. I spent my life being completely numb. Constantly told what to do, where to go, what to wear, who to be friends with, who to date, and how to behave. I was a puppet, created in my mother’s quiet, dutiful image, and my time was mostly spent feeling nothing and not giving a shit about anything. It’s no wonder I don’t remember much about that time.
I do know I’m annoyed as hell that my idiot brother blackmailed me into staying with this guy, even though the idea of my father actually coming out here to drag me back home once he finds out where I am is laughable. He’d have to actually give a shit about me first for that to happen. And it’s definitely suspicious that Tristan even offered to help me with something for the first time in his life.
But it’s costing me a small fortune staying at the Summersweet Island Hotel during their busy tourist season until a cottage becomes available for me to rent. I sent Ryan a text last night when Tristan gave me his phone number and address, and Ryan reassured me it’s fine for me to move in. Regardless, I had to ask him again today, after he had more time to think it over. I still feel like I’m imposing. Especially now that I know the guy has never had a roommate before, and this was sprung on him at the last minute.
But I’m out of options and almost out of money, so I really can’t be picky if I want it to work out here. I’ve only spent a few days on Summersweet Island, but I already know this is the place I want to stay for a while. I’ve spent my time since I “blew up my life”—according to my family—trying to find a place where I fit in. A small-town island in the middle of nowhere, where everybody seems to know each other, doesn’t exactly scream open-minded and welcoming to a new person, but I just felt… different as soon as I got off the ferry. Lighter, happier, not so full of anger and resentment.
With a sigh, I look back down at my phone and fire off another text.
Me:As long as you aren’t a serial killer, I’ll be fine.
Ryan:I can assure you I am not. But I am, however, a CEREAL killer. Cinnamon Toast Crunch is life.
“Oh, God, he’s got dad jokes,” I mutter when the elevator doors open.
My phone dings with another text from him. I look back down at it and hold more tightly to the stack of canvases tucked under my arm as I step out into the lobby.
Ryan:Here’s a question, though. How many serial killers would actually answer that question honestly? As of today, it’s believed there are 25-50 active serial killers living in the United States. They only make up about 1% of the population, but those are only the ones we know about. There could be as many as 4,000 that authorities aren’t even aware of, which brings that number up to 13%. Going by the statistical average of people who tell the truth, that’s going to bring it down to 2%. Two percent of serial killers would answer that question honestly.
“What a nerd.”
I laugh to myself, and then my feet stutter to a stop next to a potted plant.
“See you later, nerd.”
My skin instantly gets warm, and my lips tingle when I’m reminded of what happened at that stupid pizza place two days ago, when I ran over to the mainland to check out an art supply store I found online. Although it’s not like I needed a reminder. I’ve been thinking about that damn kiss since I walked away from that guy.
The nerd sure did have a mouth on him, my God.
I was just looking to have a little fun to break up the boredom and annoyance of waiting in the longest line ever. I saw the fake proposal thing in a video online once. It happened between two friends at a bar, who wanted to see if they could get any free drinks out of it. They got rounds bought by everyone in the place the rest of the night. I just wanted some free pizza, because I was hangry.
And it’s not like he was a troll.
He was really good-looking—in that clean-cut,I help grandmothers cross the street and rescue kittens from treeskind of way. I still assumed it would be a quick, sloppy, awkward thing with our teeth clashing together, where no one knows where to put their hands, but I figured it would be worth it for the possibility of free food. I did not expect that man to wrap me up in his arms—arms that felt much stronger and muscley than that loose bowling shirt suggested—and kiss the hell out of me right back.
It only took him three seconds to get with the program and be an active participant. And then I completely forgot we were doing it for show, and it just feltreal.The way one arm stayed locked tightly around me, while his other hand slid up my spine and under all my hair to wrap around the back of my neck. The way he took over that kiss, changing the angle, turning me on in the middle of a pizza place when he kissed me harder, and gripped the back of my neck tighter… it was hot as hell. And I suddenly didn’t care if I ever ate again.
My phone dings with another text, saving me from replaying the memory of that kiss in my head again. My brain already stored it away in the diddle drawer for safe-keeping anyway.
Ryan:Sorry! I like numbers. Didn’t mean to freak you out with all my serial killer knowledge. I swear I will not murder you in your sleep. Or while you’re awake, for that matter. Unless you use the last of my coffee creamer without telling me.
Me:Oh, I’d let you murder me for that. No one fucks with my coffee creamer.
Ryan:Hazelnut, French Vanilla, or Italian Sweet Cream?
