Page 172 of Unexpected Ever After

Stuck with the Rock Star

Georgia Coffman

Chapter 1

Pia

Frozen in time and space with my fingers curled around the doorknob, I stare at his unblinking eyes.

The lids are at half-mast, heavy with mystery and a hint of boredom, and the dark, swirling hues of his irises are far too hypnotizing.

Elijah Hastings.

I’ve been searching for a roommate to help me with rent and bills since Micah moved out last week.

What I had not wanted was my best friend Tarrah’s older brother showing up in all his stupid tattooed glory to crash in my extra room.

But here he is.

The lead singer of Fusion Bounds—the former lead, anyway. The group split up altogether a couple years ago after their drummer ran off to LA to reconcile with his ex-girlfriend. My hopeless romantic heart is partly thrilled for the guy, but his happily ever after means no new songs from my most listened to band.

If they hadn’t broken up and been sold for parts, Elijah wouldn’t be standing next to the bouquet of pink carnations on my end table, either. Next to the vase sits a framed picture of Tarrah, Micah, and me in sparkling dresses. We’re laughing into our drinks, and the sight of it usually makes me smile.

But right now, as I stare at this hunk of a rock star, not even a group of kittens in sparkling outfits would make me smile.

This feels like an intrusion—or a dream.

The broody man has taken up an obscene amount of space on my computer and Apple Music library for years, and now he wants to crowd my apartment with his dominating presence too.

I just wish I could say no. What I really wish is for the quiet physics student I met with yesterday to show back up and suddenly think the place is big enough for her textbooks and beakers, after all.

“Come in, come in,” Tarrah says, ushering her brother into my living room without a glance my way.

But Elijah keeps his piercing gaze on me as he takes slow, measured steps over the threshold and stops an inch from the couch. The intensity in the way he watches me feels like it’s been an hour.

Does he always do this? I’ve never noticed it before.

Then again, we’ve only met in person one other time. It was a year after Trevor Quinn quit playing the drums for them, and Elijah was busy spiraling his way from the top of the charts down to our typically cramped New York apartment.

He stayed with Micah and me for a couple of days, at Tarrah’s request.

The first thing he did was tease me for my interest in nonfiction books. Elijah took one look at my collection organized alphabetically on a dainty white shelf in the living room and smirked. He proceeded to tell me I should get out more and enjoy my own nonfiction life.

That was strike one.

When he wasn’t licking his wounds, he was sticking his tongue down the throat of a groupie like our place was a brothel. The asshole called me a prude after I berated his filthy habits.

Excuse me for not loving sweaty ass prints on my coffee table from him plowing a random woman he met at a sleazy bar.

Strike two.

I refused to let it bother me that some hotshot rock star didn’t think I was fun and free with my sexuality, and I refuse to let him make me squirm now.

Not today, Satan.

“Elijah just needs a place to stay for two weeks. That’s it.” Tarrah narrows her eyes at him like he’s the one who needs convincing, not me.

Which makes me more nervous than I was to move to Manhattan from quiet suburbia.

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