Roommate Romance Read online

  She wrinkled her nose. “The only girls you ever brought over totally ignored me.”

  “You were a kid,” I reminded her, but still I felt a twinge of guilt. When I had been her age, my interest in women hadn’t relied much on personality. But I had been a dumb, horny teen. And then I found myself hoping Megan wouldn’t feel that way about any of my future dates.

  “So? They never even noticed me. All they wanted to do was tell you how cute you were and mess with your hair.”

  “I remember that.” I let out a fake longing sigh, trying to cover up my guilt. I hated thinking about how overlooked she must have felt. “Good times.”

  Megan poked me in the chest.

  “At least your taste in women seems to be improving.”

  “Ouch.” I rubbed at the spot where she had jabbed “You’re imagining things. And it doesn’t matter if Allie is nice. She’s not interested in me. Not that I’m interested in her,” I added quickly.

  “She turned you down, didn’t she?” my stupid-smart sister asked.

  “No,” I retorted.

  Megan laughed. “She totally turned you down. And now I like her even more.”

  “Thanks a lot.” I reached out and ruffled her hair. “At least that means I’ll have more time to check up on you at NYU.”

  She groaned. “Please no,” she said, and then got serious. “Look, I know you put a lot on hold to take care of me.”

  “Something I’ve never regretted,” I told her firmly. Looking down at her, I suddenly could see both of our parents reflected in her face. A wave of sadness rolled through me. It was easier not to think about them, but sometimes the grief surprised me. How strong it still was.

  “I know you don’t regret it,” Megan said. “But I’m a grown-up now.”

  I pushed my melancholy away. “That’s debatable.”

  “I’m grown up enough to know when people are attracted to each other.”

  I shook my head, but she wasn’t quite done.

  “Just don’t give up, OK?” she asked. “You’re my annoying older brother, but you deserve to be happy, too.”

  Chapter 12

  ALLIE

  I was setting up for rehearsal when Joanna came into the theatre. As always, she looked perfect and polished, her hair pulled back in a fancy-looking chignon, her ever-present white suit pressed and wrinkle-free. How she managed to keep her whites clean in a city like New York was a mystery to me. Reagan claimed it was witchcraft, but she had been kidding. I think.

  “How are rehearsals going?” Joanna asked, looking around the empty theatre.

  After the first naked rehearsal, she had wisely made herself scarce. Luckily the cast had bonded quickly enough that Reagan hadn’t suggested any more exercises that required any further exposure. Not that I wasn’t completely scarred for life. I was still having nightmares about breasts attacking me.

  “It’s going well,” I told her.

  And it was. Reagan had put together a cast of extremely talented young women, all who were very professional and prompt—something that was never a given with actors. To say I was impressed with the dedication and work they were putting in would be an understatement. I had gotten used to a cast that—while talented—had been performing the same exact show for months. We had all fallen into routine. Even me, though I hadn’t realized it. It had been a long time since I had been part of something that felt fresh and new and exciting. It was both terrifying and exhilarating. I was still getting used to being OK with the exhilarating part.

  “Good,” said Joanna, but she lingered, her hands on her hips.

  “Is everything OK?” I asked her, sensing that something was on her mind.

  She looked over at me and let out a breath. All of a sudden, she didn’t look like perfect, put-together Joanna. She looked like a regular person—a regular gorgeous person—who seemed to be under a lot of stress.

  “It just has to go well,” she said, strain evident in her voice. “This show. It has to go well.”

  I nodded. From my research, I knew that she had sunk a lot of money into this theatre, completely renovating a run-down space and paying for full-page ads to bolster ticket sales. Financially there was a lot riding on this production for her. But I didn’t think the money was what was really worrying her.

  “My parents think I’m crazy,” she told me.

  Joanna didn’t talk much about her family, but I could relate to that sense of parental disappointment. “I’m sure they’re just worried.”

  “Of course,” she said, flicking away a nonexistent speck of dirt. “But not about me. About their reputation.”

  I didn’t know how to respond. I had no experience with the wealthy, elite circles that Joanna had grown up in, but I imagined there was a lot of pressure on her to meet certain expectations. Especially since her family was one of the most well-known families in New York. Joanna didn’t just have to worry about how she was seen, but how it reflected on her family. I imagined that had to be constraining.

  “The show’s going to be great,” I told her firmly. It was the only promise I could make her. And it was one I hoped I could deliver on.

  “Good,” she said, and just like that, she was producer Joanna again—all business.

  Calm, cool, collected. One of these days I’d have to ask her how she did it. If it was witchcraft, I might have to get the spell. I’d happily mess around in the dark arts to look as good as she did. She left and I finished setting up for rehearsal. I checked my watch—people would be arriving soon—and went over to my bag to get my production binder.

  But it wasn’t there.

  No. That was impossible. I never forgot my production binder. It was practically attached to the end of my hand. It was a part of me. How could I have forgotten a part of me?

  No, no, no, no.

  Anxiety rushing through me, I dumped my bag out, as if it were possible for a four-pound binder to get lost in a messenger bag. Obviously, I didn’t find it. My heart was pounding, my palms sweating, and I was pretty sure I was halfway to a panic attack if I didn’t calm down. Taking a deep breath, I sat down and mentally retraced my steps, grateful for once that I hadn’t stopped to get coffee that morning. That meant that my binder—the most important thing in the world to a stage manager—was either taking a daylong ride on the L train, or I had left it in the apartment.

  Scrambling for my phone, I searched my contacts for Shane’s number, grateful that we had been smart enough to exchange them while we sorted out this whole housing debacle. As the phone rang, I prayed that he would pick up and that he was close enough to check if the notebook was there.

  “Please tell me you’re in my bedroom,” I blurted out when he picked up.

  There was a moment of silence, and then his voice, low and sexy, came through the line. “Give me five minutes and I can be,” he said.

  I thwacked my forehead with my palm, annoyed that my entire body tightened at the thought of finding Shane in my bedroom. In my bed. Not now, body! This was SO not the time.

  “Did you leave something at home?” he then asked to my great relief. There was a slight hint of humor in his voice. Clearly he thought I was ridiculous. He wasn’t wrong.

  “I hope so,” I said, and I could hear the urgency in my voice. “Are you nearby? Can you check?” I crossed my fingers.

  “I’m downstairs in the workshop,” he said.

  Thank god. I let out the breath I had been holding. “Can you go upstairs and see if I left a big black notebook in the bedroom?”

  “Of course,” he said. “I’ll call you when I get there.”

  I hung up, and heard a murmur of voices in the lobby, and I glanced up to see that some of the actors had begun arriving for rehearsal.

  “Shit,” I muttered. Even if the notebook was at the apartment, there was no way I’d be able to get there and back without delaying rehearsal. And I really didn’t want to do that. It was embarrassing. It was unprofessional. I had never, ever forgotten my production noteb
ook. That was an amateur mistake, and I prided myself on always being prepared.

  Reagan came in wearing a long black sweater dress and greeted the cast. My face burning with disappointment in myself, I grabbed a notepad from my bag and prayed that no one would notice.

  “I thought we’d start with some acting exercises today,” Reagan said, throwing her coat across a chair. “Do some warm-ups.” She rubbed her arms—the fall chill had been especially sharp this morning. “Both literally and figuratively.”

  They began, but I was only half paying attention. I kept checking my phone, waiting to hear back from Shane, but when twenty minutes passed without a response, I resigned myself to an evening of rebuilding my production binder from scratch.

  If I was lucky, Reagan would do acting exercises for the entire rehearsal, but while it would have benefited me, it wouldn’t have been the sign of a very good director. And while Reagan was young and without professional experience, I knew that she was a very good director.

  I spent the entire rehearsal in a state of frustration and stress. I felt damn near naked without my binder, and I couldn’t get rid of that horrible pain in my chest that came whenever I imagined my notebook lost somewhere in Manhattan or Brooklyn. I never cried, but I was so, so close to tears. Thankfully, I managed to keep it together, taking deep long breaths and planning out my walk home with the inclusion of a trip to Kinko’s and a host of other places to get supplies. I would just start over. From scratch.

  After an hour, Reagan called for a break and everyone scattered to check email or take a smoke break or chat with each other. I went backstage, needing some privacy and quiet. I needed to work out something resembling my production binder that I could use when the actors began running lines. Suddenly Reagan poked her head through the stage curtain.

  “Hey,” she said, a playful grin on her face. “Someone’s here to see you.” And then she disappeared before I could get any more information.

  My heart sank, thinking that Megan couldn’t have picked a worse time to take me up on my offer, but it wasn’t her that came around the corner. It was Shane. And he was holding my production binder.

  “I think you were looking for this,” he said, offering it to me.

  I stared at it, and then him, overwhelmed with relief and gratitude. I hadn’t expected this at all. Not only had Shane went to look for the binder without a single question, but he had brought it all the way into the city. For me. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had done something so kind and thoughtful. And then, before I even realized what I was doing, I threw myself into Shane’s arms and kissed him.

  Chapter 13

  SHANE

  I stumbled back as Allie flung herself at me, barely managing to brace myself before she kissed me. Her mouth was hot and eager against mine, and I didn’t hesitate to kiss her back, gripping her hips against mine, planting my feet in a wide stance on the floor. I didn’t know what I had done to deserve this greeting, but I didn’t care. I had been fantasizing about her mouth since our last encounter, and it was even sweeter than I remembered.

  Her hands were wrapped around my neck, and I lifted her onto her tiptoes, bringing her body flush against mine. All that softness made me groan, and I tangled my hand in her hair, angling her mouth to deepen the kiss.

  Allie’s tongue met mine, and I went rock-hard at the breathy little sighs that kept coming from her. She kept pulling me closer, her hips and chest bumping up against me, almost as if she was trying to climb inside. It was clear she wanted more. And I was eager to give it to her.

  Sliding my hand up, I came in contact with the hem of her shirt, and a silky-smooth patch of skin. At my touch, she arched into me even more, and taking that as a sign, I ran my fingers beneath her shirt, up her back and around her ribcage. Her skin was heaven, all satiny and warm, but nothing prepared me for the feel of her breast against my palm. The beautiful roundness of it in my hand. Her nipple was hard as I swept my thumb across it, the rest of my fingers testing the weight of her. At my caress, Allie moaned, and I kissed her harder, swallowing those gasps of pleasure. God, it was heaven, touching her this way, and yet it wasn’t enough.

  Her hips were rocking against mine, and my hand left her breast, sliding downward, spreading out across her stomach. Her mouth paused on mine as she realized where I was headed. I waited for her to stop me, but instead she fisted her hands in my hair and pulled me even closer. Groaning, I slipped my fingers into her jeans, reaching down until I found her, hot, wet, and waiting.

  Fuck.

  I teased her there, circling her clit as her head fell back, giving me access to her throat. I dragging my mouth across her jaw and down to the sweet spot beneath her ear, my finger drawing perfect little gasps out of her.

  Her breathing came faster and faster as my rhythm sped up and just when I could tell she was on the edge, I slid a finger inside of her and she exploded in my arms. It was electric and I wanted nothing more than to press her against the wall, free my aching cock, and fuck her until she cried out my name. Vaguely, through my heated haze, I heard someone calling out, but it took a moment for me to realize the name they were calling wasn’t mine, but Allie’s. And whoever they were, they were coming closer.

  I knew the moment she heard it too, because she stiffened in my arms before abruptly pulling back. Her face was flushed, her lips wet and swollen, her hair wild. Her shirt was bunched up under her arms, giving me a great view of her black lace bra. She had never looked hotter. Unfortunately, it did not help my situation, a situation which was currently straining against my zipper.

  “I—we—” she started, but I stopped her.

  “It wasn’t a mistake,” I told her firmly. I could still feel her, the way her body had tightened around me. There was no way I was going to let her think that this was anything but what it was—hot as hell.

  Her eyes wide, she slowly nodded.

  “To be continued,” I said, meaning it. What we had started was going to be finished one way or another. Now that I knew how she felt when she came, I wasn’t going to be satisfied until I heard it and felt it when I was deep inside her. But not now. Not yet.

  So even though it pained me to do so, I tugged her shirt back down. Just as I did, the woman who had brought me backstage—Reagan, she of the big, thick-framed glasses and guileless smile—poked her head around the corner.

  “Allie!” she said. “We were looking for you.”

  She paused and took in our appearance. I purposefully angled my lower body away from her gaze, all the while reciting the periodic table in my head. No need to publicly embarrass myself. Still, there were enough other hints to indicate exactly what we had been doing, and Reagan’s observant eyes widened at our rumpled state.

  She cleared her throat. “Why don’t I give you moment,” she said and quickly disappeared again. Though I was pretty sure I caught a smile appear on her face before she did.

  We were alone again. Allie looked at me, her own eyes enormous and round.

  “I’ll go,” I said, bending over to pick up the notebook that had fallen to the ground. No doubt it was the reason I had been given such an enthusiastic greeting. I didn’t know what the hell was in that binder, but I was damn glad I had found it in her room, hiding under a neat pile of newly folded laundry. I handed it over and she pressed it to her chest.

  “Thank you,” she told me, and I could tell she meant it.

  I leaned in and gave her a quick, soft kiss. “Thank you.” And I meant it too.

  ALLIE

  I waited until Shane had disappeared through the stage curtain before I sagged back against the wall, my entire body buzzing from the incredible orgasm that had swept through me. What the hell was I thinking?

  Problem was, I knew exactly what I was thinking. I was thinking that I wanted Shane. And now I’d had him. At least, part of him. I shivered thinking of the part of him that had been restrained by denim, the part of him I was more than eager to be introduced to. Intimately. There was no den
ying my desire for him now. I had thrown myself at him, and he had responded by kissing the hell out of me. By making me come.

  My god. The way his hand had stroked me, how it had brought me to the edge so quickly, and sent me over just as skillfully. I pressed my palm to my forehead, feeling as if I was burning up. I was not this kind of girl. Except clearly I was. The kind of girl that let a guy put his hands on her, inside her, while she was backstage of the show she was supposed to be stage managing. It was dangerous and unprofessional and so, so hot.

  I could still feel my pulse racing, but I took several deep breaths, smoothed down my hair, and tightened my grip around my production notebook. It was time to get back to the rehearsal. Back to reality.

  But when I pulled back the curtain, I found that my fantasy hadn’t gone anywhere. Instead, Shane was standing in the middle of the theatre, surrounded by our cast of beautiful, talented actresses, all of them beaming up at him. Even Reagan was smiling at him like he was some sort of savior.

  She looked over at me as I approached.

  “Allie, did you know that Shane was a carpenter and handyman?”

  I did know that he was handy with his hands. Very handy.

  Reagan led me over to where Shane was standing. “He offered his services if we need them around the theatre. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  My stomach seemed to drop to my knees and I felt kind of wobbly.

  “What?” I barely managed. Shane didn’t know anything about theatre. And it was hard enough sharing a living space with him—having him at work with me would be unbearable. Especially since I had just proven that I was incapable of keeping my own hands off of him.

  “We’re so grateful,” Reagan was saying to Shane.

  “Reagan,” I said through gritted teeth. “Can I talk to you for a minute? Alone?”