Enamor

By Veronica Larsen

Giles is arrogant and gorgeous and absolutely off limits. That’s fine, as far I’m concerned. I want nothing more than to stay far away from him. But his room is just down the hall and his playfulness is infectious. Even in my efforts to resist him, I become enthralled by our giant prank war, one that brings much distraction to us both. I’m not the only one with secrets. There’s more to my playboy roommate than meets the eye. A lot more. He’s guarded for a reason and he’s never let anyone in…until now.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9780990825340

Book preview

me.

CHAPTER ONE

Julia

IF GIVEN THE CHOICE, I would’ve wanted my life to remain comfortable, private, and predictable. I would still be living with my parents in Newport Beach, just minutes from the Pacific Ocean and an hour-and-a-half drive from San Diego. But there’s something to be said about the unexpected, when the rug is pulled out from under you and you’re forced to see the world in new angles.

That’s what happened to me and I didn’t like what I saw. I saw the people I trusted betray me. Disbelief and suspicion lingered in the eyes of people I never thought would question me, or my morals. I burned bridges I might someday need to cross again, just to be able to head off in a brand new direction. Not because I wanted to, but because I saw no other choice.

I walk along the empty sidewalk, concrete and storefronts evenly lit by the overcast sky. Dark strands of hair go wild around my face with the sweep of a sudden breeze, forcing me to smooth them down with the palm of my hand. My walking pace inadvertently slows once I’m in front of a coffee shop.

I’m too aware of how the morning air fills me, stirring the emptiness in the pit of my stomach. A feeling I decide is hunger, even while I know it’s more likely nerves. Hunger is easier to fix. And, anyway, hunger is a possible explanation since I’ve yet to have breakfast.

I check the time and realize I still have eighteen minutes before I have to meet with my new roommates to sign the lease. The house is just down the street from this very spot. I hadn’t noticed I was already so close to arriving, only two or three more minutes of walking at the most. The realization makes my palms grow sweaty.

I’ve been so busy worrying about whether I’ll like my new roommates that I’ve forgotten I need to make a good impression on them as well. What if they decide I’m not the right fit? I’ll be left to look for another room to rent, which would also mean more awkward, tension-filled days at my uncle’s house.

Deciding I’ve got the time to spare, I push open the coffee shop door and stroll inside. The air-conditioned air carries the scent of sugar and cinnamon and coffee beans. I exhale and take my spot in the line of eight other people, confident it will move fast enough that I’ll be able to grab a cup of mocha and make it to the house by ten.

It only takes me a few seconds to make a mental note of which pastry I’ll be ordering with my drink. But it soon becomes apparent I’ll be waiting a while before I can actually order it. The line moves frustratingly slow. There’s only one girl behind the counter. She takes two orders at a time before ducking behind the machines to make the drinks, leaving the rest of us in line shifting from the awkward proximity to strangers.

I’m shifting for different reasons. For starters, I’ve realized that maybe the empty feeling in my stomach really is a hunger the nerves were masking. Last night, after class, I rushed to my uncle’s guest room to avoid another tense interaction with his wife. I knew from early on in the day that she was in a bad mood, her passive aggressive comments amped up a few degrees higher than usual.

Soon I’ll be away from the disapproving glares my aunt throws my way whenever she thinks I’m not watching. I’m not really sure how much she knows about what happened, but the way she looks at me is enough to suggest she’s made up her mind about the events, just like everyone else did back home.

I’m looking forward to giving my uncle the definitive news that I’ve found a place to live. I’ve already met one of my roommates. Ava’s a tall, strawberry blonde with an infectious smile. I liked her the moment I laid eyes on her. She has a way about her that puts me at ease. There was a second girl, who I also liked, but she backed out of moving in earlier this week. Ava sent a message two days ago letting me know her cousin will take the spot. And even though I’m a little nervous that Ava’s cousin might turn out to be a fire-breathing female dragon, I know I’ll have to find a way to make it work, regardless.

The longer I stare at the pastry in the glass case, the more committed I am to wait in line to get it. Every so often, I check my watch again to make sure I’m not cutting it too close. Being late wouldn’t send a great message.

The line crawls forward until there’s just one person in front of me, a tall guy with light brown hair. Behind the counter stands a pretty, blonde barista, her hair braided off to the side.

Good morning, she says, perking up quite visibly when the guy in front of me walks up to the counter.

Though I can’t see his face, I imagine his expression is friendly, maybe even encouraging, judging by her face. Her grin seems to go well beyond the polite smile afforded to the other customers.

Morning, he replies, voice velvet and gravel all at once. I’ll have a medium cappuccino.

She tilts her head and lifts a hand to her mouth. Wait. Where do I know you from?

I’m not sure, he says, drumming his fingers on the counter as though in contemplation.

They seriously just stare at each other for at least three seconds, which may not seem like that long of a time, but it is when there’s a line of people behind him and all that’s required of him is his order.

I let out a loud breath and tap my right foot to a slow rhythm. I have seven minutes to grab my drink and eat my pastry on the walk to the house.

I think you’re in my economics class, the barista offers, with a sudden bout of recollection that rings false. She’s pretending she didn’t immediately know who he was.

That could be it.

She glances at the register but I doubt she remembers what it’s for because she’s yet to ring up his order. Instead, she tucks her hair behind her ear and says, Hey, that final is supposed to be a killer, there’s an opening in my study group if you want to join.

Right. I bet that study group consists of her and her vagina.

Sounds interesting. I might take you up on that, the guy says, a smile evident in his tone. A smile the barista returns as she bites her lip coyly and glances down again.

They’re flirting. And with a line of people to witness. Flirting and oblivious to my death stare of impatience, though it should be strong enough to burn a hole into the back of this guy’s neck.

The person behind me shifts their footing. I sense it more than I hear the ruffle of fabric. I do the same, and my hand lands on my hip, where a finger taps to the same rhythm as my foot.

Maybe you should make that two cappuccinos, he adds. Assuming you’ll have one with me later.

She laughs before remembering, by some grace of God, that she’s working, and finally rings up his order.

Name? she asks, pen in one hand and cup in the other.

Giles. And what’s your name?

I lean in beside the guy just as he finishes his question in order to ask my own. Can we move this along? Some of us are in a hurry.

The barista nods, blushing, and the guy turns to face me. There’s an innate playfulness in the way his eyebrows lower, like he’s squinting slightly. A flicker of recognition flashes in his pale green eyes, which meet my own for a few seconds before darting down the center of my V-neck shirt.

Is he for real?

Are you looking for something? I snap, resisting the urge to cover my chest with my hands.

I’m by no means showing any cleavage to warrant his gawking. I hate the familiar discomfort of a stranger’s indiscriminate eyeballing.

I’ve been subjected to enough of that lately.

He goes to say something but then seems to resist. Instead, he scrunches his mouth up in the universal gesture for ‘not bad’ before turning to make his way to the other end of the counter.

I glower after him so long I forget I’m holding up the line, as well. After I order, I have no choice but to walk over to where that guy stands with his eyes fixed squarely on the barista as she prepares our drinks.

There’s something about his demeanor that gives me the impression, for a split second, that maybe he’s my type.

He’s not. It’s just a trick of the ovaries.

His posture is so relaxed, shoulders angled downward, shirt hugging the curve of his chest before swooping down over an abdomen I’m sure is as firm as the rest of him seems.

And…why am I even imagining that? There’s no need for that image to pop into my head. Just like there’s no need for me to take note of his hands in his pockets, thumbs pointing toward the crotch of his pants.

Are you looking for something?

My eyes snap up at his question, only to be met by smug satisfaction.

Yeah, you wish, I say, turning away from him to stare straight ahead.

Yeah…yeah, I do. And though he says it low, it’s obvious he wants me to hear. I pretend not to.

Every pore of my skin is hyper-aware of standing there beside him. And like I always do when I feel self-conscious, I pull my shoulders back and pretend the opposite. Because this guy oozes egotistical womanizer vibes, and I’ve learned to not shrink around those types, to never show them weakness.

You go to school here? he asks after a moment.

We’re on the last week of classes and I don’t remember ever seeing this guy around campus—which isn’t surprising since it’s a pretty big campus—but I have the sudden fear he’s been sitting behind me in one of my psychology classes all semester without me noticing. Except that’s pretty unlikely. Male psych majors tend to stick out like a sore thumb, at least in my classes.

My gaze flicks to him. Are you seriously trying to make small talk with me?

Yeah? His head tilts and I inadvertently catch how the lighting overhead brings out a coppery hue to his hair that complements his lightly bronzed skin. I mean, barely bronzed. Very, very lightly bronzed. Whatever, I’m sure he’ll be paler than a bowl of rice the instant summer ends.

I decide I don’t want to look at him again as I respond. I guess you need to brush up on your nonverbal cues.

I’d say I’m already pretty good in that department.

Even from the corner of my eye, I catch his smile. I turn to face him straight on.

So how is it you’re missing that I’m not interested in talking to you?

You couldn’t have decided that already. We haven’t even met, yet.

Yeah, we’ve met. I know his type just fine.

Once again, my hands are at my hips before I decide to put them there. Yet for every two words you say to me, you look down my shirt.

What’s your name? he asks with a laugh.

My eyes narrow automatically and I turn to face the barista as she finishes up a drink on the machine. She sets his coffee down and he takes it. Their fingers graze but her smile is cut short when she realizes how quickly he turns away. He thinks he’s found a new object for his attention, has he? Well, he’s mistaken.

Cup in hand, he faces me, tapping his palm on the surface as though securing the lid, but his eyes are on mine. And I want nothing more than for him to turn his attention somewhere else. I’m not going to lie. The guy is good looking. But damn it if one glance isn’t enough to tell me what he’s about. I’ve got a lifetime of grudges held against guys like him. He’d better leave me alone before I let them all loose on him at once.

Is it something exotic? he asks.

I stare back, straight faced, as his gaze moves over my dark hair and tan skin, before fixing on my equally dark eyes again.

Your name, I mean. Is it Camila or Gabriela…something like that, right?

He takes a sip, waiting for my response.

I don’t get it. It’s obvious I’m annoyed by his attempt at small talk, yet it’s almost like he’s finding entertainment in my aggravation.

I have just under five minutes to reach my destination. All the while, I’m aware of this guy’s eyes watching me. I can feel them, perusing around at will. Shamelessly.

Julia, the barista calls out as she sets my drink down.

Damn her.

I grab the cup with one hand, adjust my purse strap with the other, and ignore the soft chuckle rising from Giles as I make my way past him.

See you around, Julia, he says, in that sly way he seems to say everything else.

Yeah, I don’t think so.

Once outside, I indulge in a long sip of my drink, only to immediately resist the urge to spit it back out. What meets my tongue isn’t the mocha latte I ordered. It’s something that tastes like vanilla and cardboard. Not only that, I realize as I reach the end of the sidewalk, the barista never handed over my pastry, which was supposed to be warming up as she made the drinks.

I toss the ruined-drink into a trash bin at the streetlight, irritation surging through me at the barista’s weak ovaries and her drooling over such an obvious asshole.

CHAPTER TWO

Julia

THE DOOR OPENS TO reveal a tall girl with her hair pulled up into a knot on the top of her head.

She grins widely. Morning, roomie.

Ava, hey.

I can’t help but smile at her greeting, it brings a strange sense of relief that she still seems excited at the prospect of me moving in.

She pulls back the door and urges me inside. As I step over the threshold, I notice how her face is fresher than I remember, cheeks tinged pink and hazel eyes appearing smaller without any makeup on them. She told me before that she works late shifts and typically doesn’t start her day until late morning. It’s been a struggle trying to find the right time to get together about the lease. The majority of our conversations have been through text messages.

Thanks for letting me come early. I have another class in an hour, I say, as I walk further inside.

The entrance yields to a kitchen, then a living room further down. The decor is simple and unassuming. Ava’s mismatched furniture is sort of chic in a way that looks effortless and intentional at the same time. The place is clean and smells like laundry detergent, which I appreciate. Most of the places I checked out on campus left me afraid to touch any of the surfaces with my bare hands.

I follow her into the living room, as she says, No, I should be thanking you for dragging me out of bed. I don’t usually get anything done before my afternoon classes. I should be studying for finals. I won’t have time next week between work and exams.

Sounds like you’ve got a crazier work schedule than I do, I say, taking her lead and sitting down on one of the tan couches. Settled in beside me, Ava pulls one of the decorative pillows onto her lap.

You mentioned before that you work nearby?

I bartend over at Callistro’s Bar and Grill.

Love that place. Great ribs, drinks are great, too. I used to date one of the bartenders… Ava perks up as she launches into a salacious story of her short but intense fling with a bartender named Derik. I’ve worked shifts with him, and I’m surprised to hear of this considering his quiet, almost timid demeanor.

Ava and I go on chatting for a while, pretending the point of me being here is just to visit instead of to meet her cousin so we can make the ultimate decision on moving in. I don’t mind passing the time with Ava. She’s easy to talk to, asking me questions about my life, my major, and whether I’ve started dating—a question she asked the first time we met and I may have responded to a bit defensively.

Ava pries that topic open a bit more and asks, Did you just go through a breakup or something?

I did. I’m a little bitter at the moment, to be honest.

Yeah, I’ve been there, she says. It will pass. You’re just in the fire-breathing stage of the breakup. The hurt and anger will fade until it’s all a distant memory.

She says it with so much certainty that I want to take her words, fold them, and tuck them away inside, to remind myself later. Even though I know full well that her advice doesn’t apply to my situation.

I don’t typically discuss my personal life with someone I barely know, but the truth is I don’t have anyone else I can confide in lately. Ava’s one of those people that leans into your words like you’re the most interesting person in the world, her eyes eager as she listens intently. Maybe too intently.

Eventually, though, she reaches the outskirts of a topic I’m not comfortable with, asking me what my deciding factor was in moving down from Newport Beach. I keep my answer vague and ease my way right out of the conversation.

So, my room would be one of the two at the end of the hall, right? She nods and I continue, And you’ll be in the master suite at the other end?

No, I’ll be on the first room to the right, on your end of the hall.

I pull the lease out of my purse, taking a second to smooth it out on the coffee table, wondering if the question I really want to ask is any of my business. But I can’t help it. I never can.

Why don’t you want the master suite?

A polite smile crosses her face and she busies herself with adjusting the back of her bun as she says, When I told my mom I’d take over the mortgage, I was in a position to afford it with just one roommate. But a month later my mom got sick. I’m saving every expense to pay for her care. My cousin can afford to pay for the larger portion of the rent and, really, I don’t mind the smaller room.

My stomach clenches with discomfort at having prodded into such a personal topic. Silence follows that I’m meant to fill, but I swallow instead, grateful when Ava looks down to the lease papers in front of me and changes the subject.

Oh, awesome, you already signed everything. Guess it’s a done deal?

I smile. I’m ready to move my stuff in this weekend. Let’s just hope your cousin doesn’t immediately hate my guts.

Her eyes are trained on the pages in her hands as she flips through, looking for the portions that require her signature.

Don’t worry, she says, I’m not related to any murderers or drug dealers that I know of. Family knows each other’s secrets better than strangers, you know? Renting to strangers is always a roll of the dice; you never know what you’ll get. No offense, you seem great.

No, I know exactly what you mean. I’ve only lived with my family up until now. This is…different for me. But I’m excited. My lips tug into something that doesn’t truly match the anxiety stirring on the inside. I’m still nervous about taking this step, moving out on my own for the first time with people I barely know. But Ava’s right…I don’t know her any better than I know the cousin I’ve never met. I doubt Ava would want to live with this girl if she were someone impossible to get along with. Will she be here soon? I ask Ava, checking the time to realize we’ve been waiting a while.

"Umm…she? Ava straightens out the papers she just finished signing and nervously glances at her watch. My cousin’s a guy."

My jaw goes lax and a brief panic takes hold of me. What?

Her response is interrupted by a click from the front door as the knob turns. She and I get to our feet just as a tall guy walks in, bringing with him a burst of masculine energy that seems to absorb all of the air in the room.

We lock eyes, he and I, and my stomach takes a downward plunge. It’s him. The asshole from the coffee shop. He’s standing in my new living room, eyebrows lifting slightly, either from surprise or in anticipation of being introduced. Mouth parted in confusion, I turn helplessly to Ava and find her staring at me, too.

Mere seconds pass where I internally panic at the unexpected situation. No…no, no, no. Please don’t let it be true.

This is Giles, Ava says. Our third roommate.

Technically second, he corrects.

I quickly recover from my shock and turn to Ava. Can I talk to you for a minute?

"Uh, sure. She leads me down the short hall and into the empty room that is set to be mine. I follow her in silence until she turns to address me again. What’s wrong?"

She’s feigning innocence in such a convincing way, I’d almost believe her if I didn’t know better. My head swells with hot air and I swallow back a sharp word in an attempt to keep my tone calm.

You know exactly what’s wrong. You told me your cousin was a girl—

No, I didn’t, she cuts in, pausing before she adds, I’ve never once said that. But does it change anything?

I run my hand over my face, realizing she’s right. I’ve assumed her cousin was female from the moment she mentioned it. I guess I just couldn’t entertain the idea of it being a guy.

A male roommate is a way, way different deal than a female roommate, I say. For reasons I think are obvious.

Her hand comes up to her throat and her fingers fan out there. In that moment, she looks guilty. I worried you might have reservations. But I just wanted you to meet him first before you dismissed the whole situation.

Oh, I’ve met him. I had the pleasure of having him try to pick me up just this morning.

Ava’s hand leaves her throat and moves to the space between her eyes. Crap, she whispers.

Crap isn’t the word I’m thinking of at the moment. My mouth opens as I start to say the deal is off. That I don’t want to move in, but I stop before the first syllable, realizing my words will make my decision final and that maybe I need another moment to think it over.

I can’t spend another second at my uncle’s house. While my uncle has been a neutral party in what I’ve been going through, even offering to let me live with him until I found my own place, my aunt has very decisively taken her stance. Her judgment is clear in the way she’s short with me, barely even looks at me if she can help it. Her general attitude creates a tension I can hardly stand. I’ve tried sticking to my room, staying out of her way, but it seems that my mere presence in her house is leaving stains on her walls. All of her walls. The way she looks at me, like I’m something dragged in from the trash, is just a reminder of what I’m trying to wipe clean.

I’m not here to make best friends with my roommates. That was just a stupid, little girl fantasy of mine. The reality is that roommates just need to get along and be civil. I’m an adult. I can do this. I really can.

But can I? It’s not just the issue of Giles rubbing me the wrong way from the moment I met him, but it’s also the idea of living with a man. It all brings up a tiny, childish voice in the back of my head that warns my parents wouldn’t allow it. And the guilt that comes along with that thought is one