Filthy English

I didn’t know how much actual cooking I’d be doing, but the sentiment had made me laugh.

A bit later, the doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it,” Elizabeth called from the living room.

“’K,” I answered back, my hand in sudsy water. “It’s probably Axel. He wanted to bring over pizza on moving day.” Axel was one of my frat brothers and a football player; I was closer to him than any of the other guys.

A few minutes later, I sensed more than heard movement behind me, and I paused, my skin prickling. I couldn’t tell you why except that it had to have been a sixth sense or a gut feeling. Fuck.

“Hey, you have someone here about the house,” Elizabeth said.

“Dax?” a hesitant voice asked.

Shit, shit, shit.

That voice. Remi.

And when she said my name like that, as if the word actually hurt, my chest constricted.

Schooling my features into a mask, I turned around. My eyes ran over her, taking in the fiery hair and the bruised look in her eyes. I smirked and smiled cockily. “Hey there, angel.”

A slow blush stole up from her neck to her face, and she looked down, refusing to meet my intense gaze—that was fine because my eyes were on the arsehole beside her.

I RANG THE doorbell and a blonde girl answered, wearing cut-off shorts and a gray tank top that read Front Street Gym. She looked vaguely familiar, but I was too unfocused to pin it down.

Since arriving back from London, I’d spent the last few days scouring every apartment building, duplex, trailer, and rental within a few miles of Whitman. Everything was rented already or in a shitty neighborhood. If I could get this house, I’d win the freaking lottery. I crossed my fingers, hoping the roommate was just as nice as the house.

If this didn’t work out, I’d be forced to live with my mother and drive sixty miles’ round trip each day to class. Not to mention listening to my mom berate me about my weight, what I wore, what time I got up, how late I stayed up, and who I hung out with.

Clutching the advertisement from the Whitman website I’d printed off, I let out a breath, feeling the urge to vomit.

“Can I help you?” the pretty girl standing at the door asked.

“Um, you asked for a roommate and I’m applying. I even have the first month’s rent and a deposit ready today—that is if you haven’t found anyone yet.” I sent her a hopeful look.

Classes did start in two days.

She blinked, her eyes raking over my two companions, Malcolm and Hartford, then landing back on me, taking in the blunt cut hair, denim sundress and yellow flats.

I smiled, indicating the guys with me. “This is Hartford, a student at Whitman, and my brother, Malcolm. They tagged along with me to check it out.”

Wearing a light blue polo shirt and khaki shorts, Hartford nodded and smiled. “Hi, I think we’ve had a class or two together.”

Yep. There he was. My missing fiancé who’d arrived at my hotel six days earlier and tossed me into an emotional tailspin.

He’d knocked on my door, gone to his knees, and pleaded with me to take him back. Tears had been shed.

“You’ll always be the girl for me,” he promised, and the only reason he’d gotten cold feet was because he was afraid we were too young to make such a big commitment.

And the pretty blonde girl on Instagram? She’d happened to be at Cadillac’s while he was there and nothing had happened between them.

Basically, by the time I’d disappeared to London, the perfect guy had decided he couldn’t live without me.

Everything I’d wanted was back within my grasp.

“Everyone deserves a second chance,” my mom kept telling me.

Of course, we weren’t getting married anytime soon, but I couldn’t toss away our relationship either. We’d spent more than two years together and had a lot of memories. Good ones.

I got pulled back to the present when I noticed Malcolm snapping his fingers, one of the repetitive movements he used to alleviate stress. Meeting new people made him jittery, although most times it was the other person who got intimidated. At sixteen, he was already six-one with lean muscles and prone to say whatever popped in his head. His blue eyes bounced from me to Hartford and then back to the blonde.

He nodded, curly brown hair bouncing. “I’m Malcolm, and I want to see where Remi will live.”

“Maybe I’ll live here,” I told him gently. “We have to take a look first and see if it works out. Someone may have beat me to it.”

The girl smiled, making her even prettier. “No, it hasn’t been filled. Come in, please. I’m not the one who lives here, but I’ll introduce you to the person who owns the place. We’ve been moving in for the past couple of days, so it may be a bit messy.” She took a step back to let us enter. “I’m Elizabeth, by the way.”

“Remi,” I said with a nod, realizing I’d been so scattered I hadn’t even told her my name.

We all filed inside the small ceramic-tiled foyer that opened into a spacious area with an old brick fireplace, freshly waxed hardwood floors, and a pretty bay window with the panes cut into small diamond shapes. A faded couch, a navy leather recliner, and a gray media center with a huge television took up most of the den. Except for the couch, most of the furnishings looked new. The house smelled of tart lemons, perhaps from cleaning, and fresh paint. Whoever owned it took pride in it.

So far, so good, Remi.

A tall, heavily muscled man wearing a black baseball hat was on a ladder in the center of the den hanging a ceiling fan, but came down as we entered the room. He greeted us warmly, but that wasn’t what caught my eye. Nope. My eyes got tangled up on the small dragonfly tattoo on his neck.