Stud

By Taylor Falcon Love

Brad is a hard working man of the Earth, with the body of an Adonis and the attitude of a puppy. 

 

Sara is a graduate student training for her first marathon.

 

Mutual friends connect them as roommates and they find that there's a little more chemistry to their living arrangement. Young go-getters in Manhattan dodge the summer heat, both indoors and outdoors. They both fight strong urges and overly friendly cuddle sessions. Does fate bring them together or make the situation super awkward?

 

This hot and steamy romance contains scenes for mature audiences. This is a publication of Rodney Falcon Publishing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rodney Falcon Publishing
• Release date: Aug 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201656096

Book preview

Stud

A Hot Roommate Romance

By Taylor Falcon Love

Copyright 2021 Rodney Falcon Publishing. All rights reserved.

Cover design by Rebeca-Ira P

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This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, are coincidental.

CHAPTER 1

It’s April when Sara’s new roommate moves in.

The thing is, she doesn’t really want a new one, so she’s not that pleased about it. She and Rose had gotten along perfectly: Sara’s clean and organized and likes things a certain way, and Rose had rolled with it, been happy to follow her lead. Unfortunately, Rose then left mid-degree on a free-spirited whim to go on a year-long backpacking trip in Southeast Asia, leaving Sara with a two-bedroom apartment in Hell’s Kitchen that’s nice enough for her to feel safe, but not cheap enough for her to live in by herself, even with her parents’ support.

They have the money - her father is a well-known and respected pathologist and professor at Harvard. For better or for worse, he and Sara’s mother have always pressed the virtues of hard work, earning your place, paying your own way. They’ve helped out, of course - it’s definitely a nicer apartment than a twenty-four year old should have - but it’s not so nice that she can’t pay to keep it, so long as she has a roommate. Sara respects her parents’ efforts for their daughters to not end up spoiled rich kids, despite their unavoidable privilege. As a logical person she knows it’s better for her in every way that she acknowledge it and go her own way, as Stevie Nicks would say, but there are definitely times when she’s on the subway home from her part-time serving job, only to have to write a paper into the wee hours once she gets there, that she wishes they were a little looser.

Sara knows she should be mad about Rose leaving, probably - they’d agreed to live together throughout all of grad school, not three-quarters of it - but truly, she can’t be. It’s the sort of thing Sara likes the idea of doing if she were a different person entirely, someone without twenty-four years of deep-seated anxiety and perfectionism and high expectations drilled into her. The world needs people like Rose to follow their hearts just as much as it needs people like Sara to rigidly follow their five-year plans.

Still, the new roommate thing is troublesome. Sara doesn’t want to teach somebody new her methods. On the upside, finding one isn’t difficult. Because of her parents’ support, the rent on the apartment is fairly reasonable, and she can be a little choosy. 

So it’s remarkable that even with that flexibility, she ends up with Brad.

Brad isn’t a total stranger - he’s an old friend of her college buddy Emil, who had vouched for him. She trusts Emil implicitly; he’s just as particular as she is, albeit in different ways, and he’d assured her that Brad was both amiable and useful to have around.

Sara can see that; she’d met Brad a couple of times before. He dressed like a fisherman and she knew he worked construction so it was clear that he was going to be good at all of the practical things that she wasn’t. She’d known immediately that they were incredibly different people, but he was charming in an easy way, and he even seemed to like her well enough - not always a guarantee with what she knew was her sometimes prickly personality.

Besides, the middle of the month is a somewhat odd time to be looking for a roommate. So he’s in.

There’s a bit of an adjustment period. Brad turns out to be a morning person, which wouldn’t be bad in and of itself, but he also turns out to be the kind of person who sings in the shower - and in the kitchen, and in the living room, and when he’s getting dressed for work. Rose had been an early-morning cyclist, so Sara had invested in various sets of disposable earplugs, but Brad’s voice still manages to permeate through. She thinks she’s going to have to buy a more reliable set, at least for nights when she doesn’t have a morning class the next day.

His voice is also not the only thing that’s loud. It seems like everything about her new roommate is loud. His feet fall heavily on their vinyl flooring. He has a tendency to kind of lumber around, occasionally knocking into things. His laugh is boisterous, raised, the kind that Sara usually only hears from people in a large group, when other people’s personalities are turned up to eleven. Brad, it seems, only has one level.

Generally, though, it goes okay. Brad’s friendly, surprisingly organized, and seems to have a pretty happening social life, so he’s really not home that much. She works about four evenings a week as a server at a low-key hole-in-the-wall pub in the Financial District, and on those nights when she’s not getting home after midnight, she’s usually got either work to do on her grad school thesis - a thorough analysis of the role of food and cooking scenes in mid-century American literature- or a baking project that she wants to tackle.

It is here, though, that she has to register a complaint: he’s not really a dessert person, Sara, I don’t know what to tell you.

Not really a dessert person. Sara had just stared at him blankly after he’d declined a slice of her newest cake combination - pear and walnut; she’s quite proud. 

Everyone is a dessert person, Brad.

No. Not me. He’d cheerfully prodded a nearby jar of what will be pickles, which sit atop a small shelf that he’d brought with him and named ‘the fermentation station,’

Letting things rot in jars, apparently, is one of his hobbies. Although it’s kind of unsightly, Sara will allow this; she does love pickles.

This is fine in and of itself: nobody is forced to like sugary treats, and Sara isn’t in the business of force-feeding people her food. Unfortunately, they have a very Manhattan-sized freezer, and she’s quickly running out of room to house leftover baking. Sara used to give a lot of it to Rose, whose sweet tooth is legendary, so without her main recipient the pile in the freezer is growing. She eats some of it herself - she is a dessert person, obviously - but she’s been trying to eat a little better overall - she’d made a terrible decision and signed up for a marathon in August, of all times- and she can’t give it all a home.

Early May

On week three of Brad living with her, he solves her freezer space problem.

It starts with a gentle knock on her bedroom door and a hesitant, um, Sara?

She looks up from her annotated copy of Cannery Row, which she’s rereading in her favorite reading spot - the side of her bed that’s pushed up against the window, reading pillow behind her back, cross-legged. Yes?

Brad nudges her door open. Hey Sara, I was - oh hey, turntable! Cool! He steps into her space easily, taking only one long stride to reach her dresser, where her father’s old record player sits. What do you got on the go? Let me see - whoa Sara, Nebraska! Didn’t peg you for a fan of the Boss!

It’s about nine on one of the rare evenings so far where they both seem to be home, but Sara hadn’t really planned on being social tonight. She has a aggressive redo-this-section schedule plotted out. But he’s lived here for three weeks and she’s mostly been not social, which she knows isn’t really conducive to a positive cohabitation relationship. Even if they obviously have very little in common and are never going to be best friends. 

Still, they both seem to like Springsteen, so that’s something. Sara nods and smiles. I’ve got a lot of his albums. Most are my dad’s originally, the others I went hunting for in used record stores. You’re a fan, I presume?

Of course, Sara, he’s a Jersey boy! Brad gestures to the record player. Can we turn it on? I haven’t heard this bad boy in a good long while!

Sara can’t help it; the combination of his enthusiasm and somewhat odd manner of speaking makes her smile. Sure Brad. Do you know how, or did you want me to?

He waves her off. Do I know how to use a record player, she asks. Of course, Sara. I’m not an animal! Don’t you worry your pretty little head. He takes a minute, but soon enough the opening harmonica rings throughout the bedroom, and he turns to her with a wide grin.

You look a little happy for how bleak this song is, Sara observes.

Brad shrugs good-naturedly. I’m just excited! I knew you had some surprises up your sleeve, McReese. Not all Ivy League after all. He sits down on her floor, crosses his ankles, and hangs his wrists over his knees as he leans back, listening to the song. Five seconds after the lyrics begin, Brad suddenly sits up and looks at her. Nothing wrong with Ivy League, of course! Obviously. Just you know. Bruce is the working man’s man, so I figured - not that you’re not a working man, or lady, but -

It’s okay, Brad, she cuts in, smiling. She gets it; she’s a fairly easy stereotype. Harvard undergrad, then Columbia, summer house in Cape Cod. Whatever you assumed about me, it’s probably mostly right.

Brad shakes his head vigorously and holds his hands up, palms facing toward her. I didn’t assume anything! Morocco said you were cool, that’s the only assumption I made. I promise. He tilts his head and averts his eyes to her shelf, where her stack of records sits. I did kind of figure you might be into opera or something, though.

Opera! Sara laughs. I’m stuffy and uncool, but I’m not that stuffy and uncool.

Brad furrows his brow. You aren’t either of those things, Sara. I don’t know you that well yet, but I know that much already. Being a hard worker doesn’t make you either of those things. 

She bites her lip. Oh, well - thanks, Brad. She clears her throat, the weight of Cannery Row on her lap reminding her of tonight’s to-do list. Anyway, um, did you need something?

Oh, right! Brad claps his hands on his knees and springs to his feet. I was wondering what the deal was with the freezer. It’s kind of full.

Oh. Sara makes a face. I’m taking more than my half, I know. I’m kind of a stress baker, but I’m also sort of training for a marathon and can’t eat it all myself, and you said you didn’t really like dessert, so - I’m sorry, I promise I’ll try harder to find it all a home.

Oh, is that all you need? Just some people to eat it all? Brad snaps his fingers and points at her with one of them. I got just the thing. I guarantee you if I bring it to the jobsite tomorrow, it’ll all be gone by lunchtime.

That could work. Sara smiles at him. That actually sounds perfect, Brad. I’ll package it up tonight so it’s easy to take with you tomorrow morning.

Cool! Brad swings a foot backward, almost kicking over a pile of books. Then there’ll be room for pizza rolls!

Sara wrinkles her nose. Oh, Brad, no. Don’t buy those. I’ll make you some homemade ones.

His eyes light up. Homemade pizza rolls? You make those?

I haven’t before, but it sounds like a fun challenge.

Brad grins at her. You make me pizza rolls, babe, I’ll nominate you for roommate of the year.

Sara picks up her book again. It’s a deal, she says, smiling at the pages.

Mid May

He’s spent years fighting it, but one month before his twenty-fifth birthday, Brad moves to Manhattan.

He loves New Jersey and he doesn’t really want to leave, but between the early morning ferries and living in-between roommates out of his mom’s basement, the commute is really starting to get to him. He’s been working for a construction company whose jobs are primarily either in Manhattan or Brooklyn, and while getting to Manhattan is one thing, Brooklyn days have been a bit rougher.

It’s not necessary, strictly speaking. But if a good arrangement comes up, he decides not to pass it by. So when his friend Emil, who he’d met when they were both dating a pair of sisters - neither relationship had lasted, but him and Morocco were forever, mentions another friend is in need of a roommate in Hell’s Kitchen, Brad agrees to put his name out there.

To his surprise, Emil’s friend says yes.

The thing is: Brad knows Sara McReese. He’s met her once or twice and had been left with the distinct impression that she’d not liked him at all. He gets it: he knows he’s loud and a little hyperactive; knows that he probably gives off a stupid-masculine vibe; knows that while he usually gets along with everyone, he may not be their cup of tea. Especially not someone like Sara, who seems very studious and focused and not at all the kind of person who’s interested in dealing with a lot of energy being thrown at her. He remembers her as having been polite but quiet, a closed book with a very obvious perfectionist cover, and that hadn’t gotten any of his movie references. 

They were clearly very different people.

But hey, he’s got an open mind. Plus - not that he’s bragging, but it is kind of true - Brad gets along with most people just fine. He’s easygoing and doesn’t really get stressed out that easily. He’s pretty confident that as long as Sara can stand him, he can deal with any idiosyncrasies she might have.

And all in all, Brad’s opinion is that the first month goes pretty well. Sara’s really a lot less uptight than he’d expected her to be. He feels kind of bad for making that assumption, even if he’d only thought it and never voiced it to anyone else. But hey, if it’s the thought that counts, then a bad thought has to count too, right?

Plus, it turns out that she’s into Springsteen. And she makes him the most popular guy at work every day that he turns up with another batch of whatever she’s been experimenting with baking lately - even if he doesn’t love that the Brad-brings-baking praise sometimes comes with a kind of passive toxic masculinity from a couple of rotten-apple coworkers that he’s spent his life proving he’s not like. Just because he hunts, fishes, likes woodworking, fire, and fixing stuff, it doesn’t mean that he’s a sexist asshole. Or that he’s cool