Melrose

Heading to Nick’s room—my room—I unzip my first suitcase and try to locate an empty drawer or a section of closet space to call my own. I didn’t bring much … yet … just the necessities. Everything else I own is still at the guesthouse in Brentwood and with Nick’s furniture still being here, it’s not like I needed to bring more than the basics.

Plus, I didn’t want to overdo it on the off-chance Nick’s roommate was a total creep. I’ll do anything for Nick—but I won’t spend the next six months with some weirdo just so he can save a few thousand bucks on rent.

If I get so much as an inkling that Sutter’s videotaping me in the shower or stealing my panties, I’m out.

But something tells me Sutter’s not that way.

Obnoxious? Yeah. Totally.

Ted Bundy? Eh. I think not.

Nick’s closet is filled with t-shirts, all of them sloppily hung on a mix of wire and plastic hangers, everything in no particular order. Shoving his clothes aside, I clear a couple of feet of space for myself and begin hanging tops and dresses.

When I’m done, I catch a framed photo of the two of us on his nightstand from the corner of my eye. I recognize the picture from our junior year of high school, when the guy I was dating dumped me a week before prom after Skylar Saunders’ prom date fell through and she confessed over school cafeteria pizza that she’d always thought he was cute.

I was dropped like a hot potato without any kind of hesitation, but in my defense, ninety-eight percent of the guys at La Paloma High would’ve done the same thing. Everyone wanted Skylar. And I drew the short straw because as luck had it, she wanted my boyfriend.

Nick wasn’t planning to go to the dance that year—he was never into formals and for a rhythm guitarist, the boy couldn’t dance to save his life—but at the last minute, he managed to scrounge up a tux and show up at my door with a corsage in hand and his dad’s vintage Shelby Cobra idling in the driveway.

But there we are, posing next to his father’s car, trying not to laugh at how awkward it was that his hands were hooked around my waist and my back was flush against him and we looked like an actual couple.

I smirk. There isn’t a single childhood or teenage memory of mine that doesn’t include a little bit of Nick in it somewhere.

The whoosh of water flowing through the old pipes of the house startle me back into the moment. Sutter must be taking a shower in the one and only bathroom … yet another detail Nick neglected to share with me.

As an only child, I’ve never had to share a bathroom with anyone in my life. Even in the guesthouse with Maritza, we each had our own en suite. I’m not saying I’m above it or anything, just saying it’s going to be an adjustment.

He’s totally going to love the fact that belting out show tunes in the shower is the only way I can wake myself up in the morning. Envisioning him covering his ears with his pillow while I perform my own rendition of Cabaret at the top of my lungs puts an enormous grin on my face.

Heading back down to the entry to grab my second suitcase, I chuckle to myself when I mentally replay our little pissing match from earlier—and that’s exactly what it was.

In a way, he was testing boundaries and establishing his dominance—at least trying to. We were two feral cats pissing everywhere, and in the end, he backed down.

But something tells me it won’t be the last time.

He’ll test me again.

And again.

And I’ll win again.

And again.

Eventually he’ll get it through that thick skull of his that I’m the last person he wants to mess with.

Adjusting the handle on my second suitcase, I begin lugging it up the wooden stairs. I’m five steps up when the bathroom door swings open and out walks a very naked Sutter in a cloud of steam, his hand (barely) covering his massive junk situation.

Glancing down the stairs, he smirks when he sees me, and then he gives me a wink and a military salute before disappearing into his bedroom.

Ah. So this is how he wants to do this?

All right.

Game on, Sutter.