Page 16 of A Bossy Roommate
When she looks at me, I can see her eyes freeze for a second, before she turns away to grab the rest of her belongings.
Yeah, it’s best we ignore whatever the hell that was.
I open my apartment and gesture for her to enter. Together, we carry her stuff inside, and I’m cursing in my head the entire time. This is not what I expected or hoped my evening would look like, but my elderly neighbor has left me with no other choice. How the hell was I supposed to turn down her suggestion without looking like a complete asshole? There was no way, and I can tell Eden is exhausted. As for the hotel, I can always offer her that out tomorrow morning.
“Thank you,” she says in a small voice.
“Don’t mention it. Seriously, don’t. We don’t need the office knowing we’re living together, even if it’s only temporary.”
The expression on her face tells me she and I are on the same page—we won’t be making any of this public. I won’t treat her differently to any other new assistant. Just because we slept together, and she now temporarily lives in my apartment doesn’t mean our dynamic will change. Not in the least.
I have to admit she did a good job today. She completed everything I gave her, and it was done correctly. That was more than any of my previous assistants could handle.
“Where’s the spare room?” she asks.
“This way.” I lead her to a guest suite down the hall. It’s next door to my bedroom, has a private bathroom connected to the hallway, and a balcony. “You can stay in here,” I say, walking inside and putting her bags on top of the chair next to the bed. “Keep everything neat, and we won’t have a problem.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not even going to unpack everything,” she says with a heavy sigh. “Wouldn’t make sense if I’m moving again in two weeks anyway.”
“I’ll text Lewis and tell him to have Mrs. Hutton’s apartment deep cleaned. That way your allergies won’t get the better of you when you move in.”
She looks at me, surprise etched across her features. Lewis was a good friend of my late father and one of the last few decent human beings left on this planet. He’ll try to accommodate and properly hand over the apartment. Even if he protests for whatever reason—he likely doesn’t know that old Mrs. Hutton is farming a cat population in his apartment, and as annoying as the thought is, I won’t rat her out—I’ll simply tell him to bill me.
“I appreciate it. And you’ll get your handkerchief back, I swear. I just want to wash it first.”
I rub the back of my neck, unsure of where to go from here. It’s a unique and awkward situation I haven’t found myself in before. “Are you hungry?”
“Starving.”
“I’ll order us something.”
Leaving her in the guest suite, I walk past a loft area I’ve turned into a master suite with an additional adjoining bathroom. The living room is a large open concept with windows all along one wall, and in the center, a comfortable sofa faces a fully functional fireplace. No flat-screen TV mounted above it like you typically see. I despise mundane time-wasting activities.
The kitchen opens into the living room, and the interior designer had put a table and chairs in the middle of the two as a makeshift dining area. With Eden’s guest suite down the hall, next to a small laundry room, we will at least have some semblance of privacy between us. I only really go down that hall when I go to my bedroom or home gym.
The main reason I’d moved into this apartment, aside from the spectacular view, was the clever allocation of the rooms. It’s my home, my solitude, the one place I can go where no one willbother me. Who needs the interruptions? And yet, now I have a visitor.
Luckily, it’s only for a limited time.
My stomach growls, and I pull my phone out of my pocket. Just as I unlock the screen, my phone rings. My aunt’s name and photo appear on the screen.
“Hello, Auntie,” I answer.
“Carter, my darling nephew!” Her French accent is loud and clear. “It’s great to hear your voice.”
Eleanor Toussaint is my only living relative. At sixty-six, she has taken to calling me every couple of days to check in and keep tabs on me. Not that I mind. I love my aunt dearly, and with her living in France, visits in person aren’t too frequent. Especially lately. She’s been talking about having health issues when she isn’t hounding me about getting married—her favorite topic.
Thankfully, I’ve been able to keep her at bay with a little white lie.
“How is married life treating you,mon chéri?” she asks.
“It’s great, Aunt Eleanor. Things are going well.”
“I am so glad. I cannot wait to meet her.”
Yeah. I’d lied to her and told her I got married. It’d all started with a misunderstanding I hadn’t cleared up. Truth is, I don’t relish the deception, but after years of her asking and nagging, I figured it was the easiest way to get her off my back. It has worked perfectly well over the last few months.
As always, I expertly pivot the situation away from the idea of her meeting my imaginary wife. “How are you feeling?”