The Secret Roommate: An Enemies to Lovers Romance, page 1
the secret roommate
sara ney
copyright
Copyright © 2022 by Sara Ney
Editing by Jenny Sims, Editing 4 Indies
Proofreading/Editing by Emily A. Lawrence
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contents
1. Duke
2. Posey
3. Duke
4. Posey
5. Duke
6. Posey
7. Duke
8. Duke
9. Posey
10. Duke
11. Posey
12. Duke
13. Posey
14. Duke
15. Posey
16. Duke
17. Posey
18. Duke
19. Posey
20. Duke
21. Posey
Epilogue One
Epilogue Two
About Sara Ney
Also by Sara Ney
dedication
Love To Sierra & Alexa
Two young ladies who definitely deserve a dedication.
Quick Question, though:
…did you clean your room?
1
duke
I hated New York.
Hated everything about it, from the weather to the social scene, to the hectic, fast-paced lifestyle. Then again, maybe I just hate it because it’s not where I thought I belonged.
It’s not the place or team I thought I’d be drafted to.
Texas.
Texas is that place, and it’s where I belong. And Texas is where I’m going to play now that I’ve just signed a new deal with a team I’ve wanted to play for since picking up my first football.
The Longhorn State is in my blood.
I wasn’t drafted to the Dallas Steers as a rookie like I thought I’d be; prayed to be, actually. Instead, I was fucked over by my agent and signed to New York, a deal I remained furious about even coming off a Super Bowl win.
Fuck you, New York Condors.
And fuck you, Aaron Lightner, my former agent.
Fuck him for screwing me over when I was too young to know better; too young to know I had a choice when it came to who I wanted to play for. I had options, and he didn’t tell me about them.
The greedy bastard decided for me.
Hefting my bag, I lower the ballcap over my eyes and put on sunglasses despite the fact that I’m inside the airport. It’s not easy concealing my identity—in fact, it’s damn near impossible—but I’m quick, wearing a disguise, and don’t dick around.
It’s not long before I’m climbing into a waiting black SUV at airport arrivals and on my way into the thick of the suburbs.
I’ve never visited the Midwest; not to play tourist, not to sightsee, and I’ve certainly never lived here.
Well, today all that changes.
Today, I’m hiding out there.
See, my agent lives in Chicago and has the keys to the house where I’ll be holing up—hiding—in what he calls a “family-friendly neighborhood,” where I’ve been guaranteed no one will bother me.
No one will notice me. I won’t have to go out in public, won’t have to be seen, won’t have anyone breathing down my neck—paparazzi or otherwise.
I only need a place to lay low for two weeks. The only one who knows I’m here is my new agent, Eli.
Should be easy to stay out of trouble, yeah?
Speaking of places to hide—when the driver pulls up to a red-brick house covered almost completely in ivy vines, I almost gag in my mouth at how stereotypically wholesome the entire scene is.
White picket fence out front, mailbox attached to the house on the front door, doormat on the brick stoop.
It reminds me of the brick cottage from Hansel and Gretel or, better yet, The Three Little Pigs.
The doormat says Shut the Front Door!
Great.
My roommate thinks dumb shit like that is cute and clever? Awesome.
Rolling my bag over the cobblestone sidewalk, I frown when no one answers the door after I knock. My eyes do a quick scan for any forms of life and find none; I even peer into the front room through the window, shielding my eyes with the palm of my hand against the glare.
Everything is as quaint as Eli described, complete with a pineapple-shaped doorknocker in lieu of a doorbell.
Who doesn’t have a doorbell?
What the hell kind of setup is this?
Also—no one is here to let me the fuck inside! I feel like a dickhole standing out here. Knocking again, I shoot my gaze around the yard to the sidewalk and down the quaint street. I’m absolutely paranoid that someone may see me standing here and get nosy.
I’ve been given clear instructions by my agent to keep a low profile.
“Is anyone home?” I bang on the door with my fist.
So what if I’m early by several hours?
I helped myself to an earlier flight to get a jump start on my mini-non-vacation, thinking I’d be doing everyone a favor by leaping into obscurity sooner rather than later.
Time to relax while the powers that be did their jobs behind the scenes. According to Eli, my departure from the New York Condors will be the top news story the sports world will have seen in a decade. I’m not sure if that’s true, but I guess I have to learn to trust him.
Hell, I might even read a book or two while I’m here.
Start a woodworking project like my pops would have done. Hang a hammock and nap in the sun. Shit—the world is my oyster!
The world was supposed to be my oyster ten minutes ago, so it would be mighty helpful if someone would come to the gall dang door.
What was her name, the girl who lives here?
Peoney?
Patricia?
Pa…Pa…
P.
I open my phone to look at the address, her name a headline at the top of the screenshot.
Posey Kettner.
Posey, that’s right.
My temporary roommate’s name is Posey, like some goddamn flower or storybook creature, one of the single dumbest names I’ve ever heard, and I made no secret about it.
“Do not tell me Posey is her actual name.”
My agent, Eli, had shrugged his shoulders. “What difference does her name make? She’s a great person who also values her privacy, and I’ve no doubt that she won’t leak your location to the press or sell you out.”
“It doesn’t make one lick of difference, but that cannot be her name.”
He laughed, just like he laughs at every other thing I say.
“I’ll find out when I get there,” I tell him.
“Duke, don’t do that. You’ll make it weird.”
“How’s it weird wantin’ to know her actual name?”
“That is her actual name. Stop being a dick because you want something to pick on.”
I wasn’t picking. I was just relentlessly curious.
Posey isn’t opening the door, and I’m growing impatient, which would come as a surprise to no one.
I pull off my disguise. The wig is itchy as hell, especially with this hat pulled down on top of it. I yank off my sunglasses, too.
The cab driver probably thought I was half off my rocker, wearing glasses in the middle of an afternoon with barely any sun.
I knock for the third time, then use the ridiculously frivolous knocker, feeling like an ass because it’s smaller than the palm of my hand. A pineapple-shaped knocker—who would have thought?
I wait.
And wait.
Since I’m an impatient man, I pull out my phone and shoot a text to Eli, but it doesn’t deliver. Shit, that’s right—he’s on a flight and doesn’t land for another hour. Shouldn’t the dude have onboard Wi-Fi or some shit so I can get ahold of him in case there’s an emergency, this being an emergency?
He makes enough damn money that he can afford it.
No one is supposed to know I’m here, so the last guys I’m going to call are Jack Jennings or Sloan Powell, two men I’ve played against from time to time who live in the city nearby, neither of whom I want to share my whereabouts with.
The last time I was in the same room with Sloan Powell, he gossiped nonstop about who was sleeping with who and whose wife was caught cheating. Not cool.
Just as I’m fixin’ to throw a hissy fit, I get a brilliant idea.
“I’ll just mosey around to the back and see if I can’t find a magic door that’ll let me in.”
I decide to give myself a tour of the exterior, confident there’s a back door that might be unlocked. Or a key hidden under a doormat.
Making my way to the backyard, I take the center of the narrow driveway—it’s the old concrete kind with the grass down the middle and a basketball hoop above the detached shed slash garage.
The yard, I discover, is surrounded by a tall hedgerow; plenty of trees, and frankly, I’m surprised by the privacy. Ivy climbs up the back brick walls, too, giving the house a decidedly old-school vibe.
I wonder if ivy is any good for the longevity of the brick. Doesn’t that shit fuck up the mortar?
Eh.
Why do I care?
Climbing the two steps of the small back porch, I open the screen door and knock on the glass.
Nothing.
“Hello?” I pause. “Your guest has arrived.”
Rattling the doorknob, I find it locked, which shouldn’t irritate me but does anyway. Well, one thing is for certain, this Posey person isn’t irresponsible. If I lived in a house like this, I probably wouldn’t feel threatened by the neighborhood and probably wouldn’t lock the doors.
Ain’t no one gonna come bother me here.
I’m confident of that.
This place looks like some storybook character lives here—Mother Goose or some shit—with its green shutters and potted plants and the swing hanging from the giant oak tree in the center of the bright green grass.
It’s been cut recently and smells incredible.
Fresh.
Bet it’s rained in the last few days.
I glance up at the sky as I stand there, watching a few clouds roll by.
Sighing, I tap the toe of my cowboy boot, and it echoes against the wooden porch floor.
Tap.
Tap.
I notice that the kitchen window is open, and scanning the screen storm door, I can’t help noticing how easy it would be to pop that shit out and help myself to the inside.
It’s not that high off the ground, and I’m tall; no doubt I could climb inside if I wanted to without any issues so I’m not standing out here like an asshole all goddamn evening.
It’s not getting any lighter as daylight flirts with the night.
Climb inside through the window, dude, and let’s get this party started.
That would definitely solve a lot of my problems right now. I’m tired, hungry, and I feel like a sitting duck.
Fuck it.
I’m doing it.
I’m gonna climb in through the window, damned if I ain’t—I could use a cheap thrill in my life and this fits the bill.
Without removing my boots, I take the few short steps to the window and pop the screen out easily. I don’t give a fuck about breaking and entering—not when I technically live here now, albeit temporarily.
It’s not breaking and entering if I’m payin’ to be here, is it?
Shrugging, I brace my hands on the windowsill, which is chest height.
“I’ve jumped over grown men on the playing field, so I can surely heave myself through here,” I boast arrogantly.
Confidence has never been a shortcoming of mine. It comes from growing up in Texas, on a ranch, and being given responsibility at a young age. We didn’t work the farm—my pop was a Super Bowl-winning Hall of Famer—but he owned the land and rented it out. Our massive home was smack dab in the middle of it all.
Stream running through it, cattle, horses, the whole shebang.
In my head, I count to three, feet pumping on the ground, ready to hitch my knee on the windowsill as soon as I get enough momentum.
One…two…
I make it on the first try—obviously—my large frame crammed into the opening. Climbing on top of the counter in front of the window, I narrowly miss the sink but jam my calf on the faucet.
“Fuck!” I curse, untangling myself, extending my legs to slide to the floor.
For whatever reason, I wipe my hands on the thighs of my jeans as if I’d just run a sprint or done an equally taxing task.
I flip on the light next to the window before unlocking it.
Listening for noises, I find the only sound coming from the television in a nearby room.
“Hello?”
Ducking through what appears to be the dining room, I find it empty as I’m expecting to, and call out again in the event someone has heard me and is hiding in the shadows to clock me on the skull with a frying pan or something.
Cast iron, no doubt, like I’ve seen in the movies.
“Hello?”
I flip on more lights as I go through the dining room to the little entry hall. Unlocking the front door, I pull it open and wheel my suitcase into the foyer before shutting it again.
“Bedroom must be upstairs…”
Don’t mind if I make myself at home, Posey, wherever you are.
I lift my suitcase and take the stairs by two on account of my long legs, looking this way and that, acclimating myself once I get to the top landing and find a small loft in front of me.
It’s cute, with a love seat and television, a bookcase and a coffee table.
“Does anyone actually sit up here?”
Seems like a waste of space to me, but then again, I grew up on a massive estate on a cattle ranch with more housekeepers than was necessary, which had more rooms than a family of six could possibly ever need.
There are four doors on this level, one of them closed.
Popping my head into the closest door next to me, I discover that it’s a bathroom. The next bedroom appears to be a spare bedroom, so that’s where I plug my suitcase, nudging it next to the dresser with the toe of my boot while flipping on the light at the same time.
I don’t bother settling in. Instead, I continue exploring.
There is another guest bedroom—or at least that’s what I assume it is. It doesn’t look like there are any personal items that would indicate someone is staying here. Bare walls and minimal decorations.
I do not hesitate to crack open the closed door, not bothering to knock, with the assumption that I will find it empty on the other side.
I’m wrong.
A desk that’s been placed in front of the window faces the door, and at that desk is a young woman. It takes her a few seconds to notice me, and when she does, the bloodcurdling scream that comes out of her throat actually has me ducking—as if she’s just hurled a vase in my direction.
“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!”
It's pens and pencils, and they hit my arm like tiny swords before falling to the carpet.
“Whoa!” I hold my hands up defensively as if I expect something to come flying at my head. “Lady, what are you doin’?”
“What am I doing?” She screams for the second time, grappling for her phone, earbuds dangling from her lobes. “GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!”
“I’m Duke,” I inform her calmly. “I live here.”
I’m staying here for a time, but I don’t see much of a difference between living and staying.
The young woman—Posey—has a bright red face and looks madder than a chicken caught in a rooster house, chest heaving, nostrils flaring.
“You do not live here!” She pauses. “Are you high? Are you lost? Oh my God, have you escaped from prison? Don’t come near me.”
Now she’s holding what looks like a letter opener in one hand, brandishing it like a knife as her wild eyes glance around, probably looking for mace.
Something.
Anything to spray in my face to blind me so she can escape.
“Duke Colter. Your friend…uh…” I rack my brain for the name of Eli’s girlfriend. Misty? Michelle. “Your friend…what’s her face? It begins with an M.”
