Anyway, Dad would kill Hunter Fitzpatrick if he gave me trouble. And Sam, my brother, would get rid of the body. That was the beauty of coming from a mobster family.

It seemed like a no-brainer. I needed a big endorser to push me. That’s what everyone except Junsu kept telling me. My problem wasn’t lack of skill or talent, but that I was shy and too much of a wallflower to bring attention to myself.

Still, I said nothing.

Hunter bent his knees, pressing his palms together. “Help a dude out, old sport. I promise I’m not an asshole. I mean, I wouldn’t go as far as calling myself a good guy, but I’m harmless. My inheritance is on the line here. I just want both of us to survive this bitch of a time. I swear.”

He seemed genuine. Besides, how hard could this be? He was a willing participant in this weird deal. Plus, I’d been wanting to move out of my parents’ house for a while. They’d been bugging me about my love life—or lack of it—for a long time.

“How big is this apartment?” I groaned, feeling my resolution slipping through my fingers.

“Three bedrooms, about twenty-five-hundred square feet. Skyscraper. Walking distance from here. You can use the spare bedroom for your equipment.”

“Wow,” I blurted. That beat the studio apartments I’d been looking at to escape Mom and Dad’s constant put-yourself-out-there nagging.

“Also, there will be a private chef. I was just kidding about the omelet; I can barely open a can of alphabet pasta. And you can bring your friends and Bumble dates or whatever over. I’m an excellent wingman, Sailor. I will hand you a condom and call for an Uber to kick them out when it’s all done so you can shower and take a shit without playing hostess.”

“You’re gross.”

“Why? I’ll order them the deluxe service through my app. I’ll even risk my rating—which is four point nine eight, just saying—because that’s who I am as a person: an altruistic, stand-up guy.”

“Didn’t you do community service for public indecency recently after running down a street completely naked?” I frowned, recalling the article.

He waved me off. “That was a year ago. I’m a changed man.”

I was making a mistake. I knew that as I was making the decision. But my drive to succeed won the battle.

“What’s the drawback?” I narrowed my eyes. “If you need babysitting, there must be a reason for that.”

“Impulse control,” he said.

“Meaning?”

“Specifically speaking, I don’t have any. Just think of me, like, as Bambi: cute AF but super stupid and in total need of supervision.”

He just said aay-eff. Plus, he willingly labeled himself stupid. I felt kind of sad for him, before I remembered who he was.

“A few ground rules.” I sat back in the driver’s seat, my car still running.

Hunter’s diamond-sharp eyes twinkled at my surrender. “Anything.”

“One, as you said, we’ll have totally separate bedrooms.”

“So separate they’ll barely be in the same zip code.”

“Two, no drugs, drinks, or girls in the apartment. I’m not going to cut corners for you, and I’m not bribable, in case you’re planning on pulling any funny business.”

“No funny business.” He parked his elbows on the edge of my open window, shoving half his body inside and ignoring my personal space, not unlike an eager Labrador. “What else?”

“No hitting on me.”

“Done,” he said much too quickly, raising his palm in a Boy Scout swear. “Sized me up pretty quickly, huh?”

“Your reputation precedes you.”

“So does a certain organ.”

I lifted a hand in warning. “See? Exactly what I mean. You’re going to have to cut the BS, because dealing with your potty mouth is above this sitter’s pay grade.”

“Fine. No sexual innuendos. Can I tell Da it’s on?”

Everything was moving way too fast. I didn’t even fully grasp that Hunter was here, much less what I was agreeing to. But something told me he was the sign I’d been begging for earlier today. This airheaded, rakish boy was my good-luck charm. He was going to bring me to Tallinn Olympics next year.

Besides, Persy and Belle were going to have orgasmic seizures when they heard I’d be rooming with the Hunter Fitzpatrick.

And it wasn’t like I was breaking my no-boy rule until after the Olympics.

Hunter was a boy, but he wasn’t a good fit for me. I was in no danger of falling in love with him, of losing focus.

He grabbed my hand and shook it comically. I noticed his palm was softer than mine. Probably the only thing about him that wasn’t tarnished.

“Can I have one rule, too?” he asked.

“No,” I said flatly, then sighed. “Fine, what?”

“Don’t Google me.”

“Why?” And why was he still shaking my hand? And why, why, why wasn’t I withdrawing mine?

“Just because.”

Easy peasy, I told myself. Just like living with a really beautiful, useless picture.

As it happened, it was not just like living with a really beautiful, useless picture.

More like living with a Tasmanian devil, judging by the first five minutes of our so-called “roomance” (roommate-romance, as my mother, Sparrow, cheerfully—and creepily—put it).