Me: Long time no talk, hope you’re good.
Much to my surprise, he replies instantly.
Phoenix: Busy. As fuck. Tired as fuck, too.
Me: Ah, such is the life of a famous rock star.
Phoenix: I’m about to crash, so enough about me. Tell me about you.
I gulp. This is definitely a conversation I’ve been avoiding. He’s going to tear me a new one—all in the name of overprotective brotherly love, of course.
Me: Okay, so don’t get mad…
Phoenix: …
Me: We got evicted, but we found somewhere else to live. It’s amazing Phin. Like, luxury and Stella (my roomie) even gave Mav and me the master suite. It’s close to both of our schools and since Stella’s bestie is dating the landlord, it’s insanely cheap. See everything worked out!
My heart squeezes itself into my throat as I wait for his reply, the typing bubbles dancing along my screen.
Phoenix: I’m def mad. We don’t keep secrets, Frank. But as long as you’re safe…
Me: I am. Promise. Love you!
Phoenix: You too, brat. Talk soon.
I smile to myself as I set my phone back down on the table. That definitely went better than I thought it would.
A yawn overtakes me as I stretch my arms overhead before hauling myself out of the bed and into the bathroom for a shower. I rinsed off last night after getting home from the club, but I’m dragging ass this morning since thoughts of my hottie kept me up most of the night.
Hopefully the hot water will finish waking me up. If not, there’s always coffee.
I can’t help but marvel at the events of the last week as the steamy spray sluices down my body. Despite going into this new living arrangement with low expectations, living with Stella is actually pretty great.
She’s neat and tidy, and I’m pretty sure Maverick is her spirit animal. The two took to one another like they were long-lost friends.
And don’t even get me started on the apartment—which isn’t an apartment at all. It’s a three bedroom, almost two-thousand-square-foot luxury townhouse.
It honestly blows my mind that this is the place I’m calling home. I guess being best friends with the landlord’s girlfriend comes with perks, because God knows this place would otherwise be so far out of my budget it isn’t even funny.
Even nicer, Stella insisted on Maverick and me taking the master bedroom—which came furnished—since there’s more space and an en suite.
But still, as nice as everything is, change is hard, and my brain is struggling to cope with all of the newness raining down all around me.
After a quick wash, I shut off the water and dry myself with one of the fluffy towels. Since it’s just us girls and Mav, I toss on a pair of sleep shorts, a camisole, and my robe before venturing into the kitchen.
“Can I crack the eggs?” I hear Maverick ask as I near the end of the hallway. I guess Stella’s up after all. I hope he didn’t wake her up.
But when a very familiar, masculine voice replies, I stop dead in my tracks. “Sure thing, little man.”
“I’m not little,” Maverick says, and despite my heart pounding so hard it feels like it might beat right out of my chest, I can just picture him flexing his tiny muscles. “Uncle Phin says I’m as strong as Hulk!”
What in the hell is he doing here?
Finally, my good sense kicks in and I hightail it to the kitchen. Maverick and my hottie-turned-stalker are standing together at the island, cracking eggs into a mixing bowl.
“What are you doing here?” I demand, walking over and wrapping my arms protectively around my son.
“Um…” He casts a sidelong glance in my direction.
“Did you follow me?” I take a step back toward the hall, dragging Maverick with me.
“Mama, we’re making Pamcakes,” Maverick whines, trying to shimmy out of my hold. But I tighten my grip, keeping his little body tucked into mine. “With chocolate chips!”
“How in the hell would I follow you?” he asks, furrowing his brow. “I don’t even know you.”
“Really?” I cock my head to the side.
“Lady, I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I want to know why you’re here!”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters under his breath. “Stella didn’t mention her new roommate was crazy.”
I can feel my cheeks heat at his insinuation. He’s either a brilliant actor or a practiced liar. I’m torn on which. “Watch your language,” I growl right as Maverick flings himself out of my grip and into his space.
“My mama’s not crazy! And my teacher says name calling is bullying. I thought you were my friend, but I don’t wanna be friends with a big mean bully!” He narrows his eyes in what his four-year-old brain thinks is an intimidating glare. “Say sorry!”
My stalker-slash-hottie has the good sense to look ashamed. I guess being rebuked by a kid who’s still in a booster seat will do that to a person. “You’re right, bud. Name calling is shitty—I mean crappy—I mean bad. It’s bad.”