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Really. Really? Did he just say that?

Jordan shuts the door firmly before I can manage a reply.

Amanda lives in a shit hole.

It’s a three-story apartment building with a parking garage on the bottom floor, and I’m guessing it was built in the 1960s. Don’t think it’s been remodeled since then either. The windows face the extremely busy street, and it doesn’t look safe. Not by a long shot.

Yet she’s babbling on like it’s the best option ever. Almost feels like she’s making excuses to me for living there.

“It’s so close to everything, including the bus stop I take to work.” She sends me a relieved smile. “So glad you picked me up, though. It would’ve sucked to ride the bus home with the flowers. Though I guess I could’ve left them at work.”

I say nothing. My brain is too busy trying to comprehend the fact that she takes the bus every day to and from work. That she lives in this shitty apartment complex we’re about to park in front of. That she seems perfectly happy with her life.

If she would’ve stuck with me, I could’ve given her so much more.

So much fucking more.

“Just pull in right there,” she instructs, and I park on the street, putting the SUV in park and killing the engine. I glance around, my gaze going to the side mirror as I contemplate getting out of the car when the light finally turns red. There is too much traffic coming at me to make a safe exit.

“How long have you lived here?”

When I don’t move to get out of the car, she drops her hand from the door handle. “About a year.”

“You like it?” I don’t see how she could.

“I like that I have my own place versus having a roommate, like I did at my other place.” She shrugs. “It’s kind of old, but it works.”

It’s awful, but I refrain from saying anything insulting. I don’t want to make her mad. Feels like we’re walking a fine line together already. Didn’t help that I say stupid shit without thinking.

Amanda’s right—I should’ve never told her friend that she broke my heart, but the words came out without thought. Just the automatic truth. Though maybe she needs to hear it…especially since we haven’t really talked about it.

Once the traffic lightens up, I get out of my car, and Amanda does the same. I grab the flower arrangement from the back seat and follow her to the building and then up the stairs, relieved that none of the apartments are on the ground floor. At least that’s semi-safe—a creeper has to climb up to get through the window.

But I’m constantly looking around as we head to her apartment, noting the dark corners, the scummy guy who leaves his door open so I can see inside his trashed place. She walks faster when we pass by his, and I practically want to growl my disapproval.

She finally comes to a stop in front of apartment number forty-two and whips out a set of keys, unlocking two locks before the door swings open. I follow her inside, coming to a stop in the center of the room when I realize this is it. This is the entirety of her home.

“You live in a studio?” My tone is accusatory and I immediately regret saying it like that, but come the fuck on.

“Well, yeah.” She shuts and locks the door, then throws her arms up in the air. “But it’s all mine.”

It’s not much. There’s a tiny kitchen and, from what I can tell, an even tinier bathroom. The couch is still folded out into a bed, and the sheets and blanket are a haphazard mess, one of the pillows on the floor. Amanda makes a dash for the makeshift bed—her actual bed—tossing the other pillow onto the floor and trying to fold the bed away.

“God, how embarrassing. I’m so messy,” she says, completely bent over the couch and giving me a perfect view of her perfect ass.

“Leave it,” I tell her, and she stands up straight, turning to face me. “Don’t worry about it,” I say, my voice gentler. “Just—go get ready.”

“Can I take a shower?” she asks hopefully.

Her question sends an immediate image to my brain. One of Amanda in the shower completely naked.

And me joining her.

“Yeah,” I say, my voice gruff. “Go for it.”

“I’ll be fast,” she assures me, and then she’s gone, the bathroom door shutting behind her.

There was a time long, long ago, in high school, when I asked her to come back to my place, and I took a shower while she wandered aimlessly around my room. So I do the same now, looking around her tiny apartment. There really isn’t one personal thing on display. Not even a photograph of her family, of her friends, of a past boyfriend.


Tags: Monica Murphy Forever Yours Romance