Page 18 of The Roommate Remodel

My computer is on the desk in the living room, which is a short walk from the bedroom. With the house quiet, that means the boys are probably in bed after a long day.

Careful not to wake anyone, I crack open the door and check the hall. I tiptoe across the floor, passing the stairs before gathering my computer from the living room. As I’m heading back, I suddenly hear the patter of footsteps, then spot a shadow coming down the stairs. I freeze for a second, realizing that if I stay where I am, I’ll get caught in my pajamas. Instead, I whip around the corner of the front entrance hall and plaster myself against the wall, holding my breath.

For a few seconds, there’s no sound. Whoever it was must have left. I slowly let out my breath. As I round the corner, I slam into what feels like a solid wall, but smells like a soap that might have a description likeocean breezewith undertones of a spicy cologne.

“Jaz?” Brax’s familiar voice isn’t a comfort. It’s like someone pulled the panic alarm in my brain. He fumbles for me in the dark, like he’s trying to peel me off his shirt. When I try to step to the side, I trip on his foot in the dark and lose my balance. His hand sweeps around my arm before I fall, pulling me up against him at the last second.

The man has reflexes I don’t even know about, probably honed from years of skating around on two thin blades.

He’s also built like a tank. A cement wall would’ve been more comfortable to walk face-first into.

The feel of his hand on my skin only seems to highlight how much I like it there.

Bad girl!I inwardly scold, like I’m a puppy with a preference for leather shoes.

He sets me on my feet as if I’m the weight of a feather, right before the lights flick on.

“What are you doing up?” he asks, like this isn’t my house. He lets me go, and a shiver runs across my body, reminding me I’m underdressed.

His gaze flicks over my pajama set as embarrassment pricks across my chest: a sparkly, pink-striped tank top over a matching pair of loose cotton shorts.

I fold my arms over my tank top. “I’d like to ask you the same thing.”

He gives me an amused smirk. “Nice pajamas, Princess. It looks like a unicorn vomited on you.” I can’t tell if he approves of what he sees, but he’s definitely not a fan of pink sparkles.

“It’s none of your business what I wear to bed.” I straighten my spine and pretend I’ve got the confidence of a Kardashian, even if I’m cursing myself for not wearing pajamas that resemble a potato sack.

He arches an eyebrow. “Who said I didn’t approve?”

I sigh. “Brax, why are you down here?”

He holds up an empty plastic bag. “I need some ice.”

“Isn’t it kind of late for a drink?”

“Not to eat. After workouts. For recovery,” he adds, glancing over his shoulder. “But then I heard something in the front hall.”

“So you came around the corner to find out,” I finish, replaying that delicious memory of walking face-first into hisocean breezeand the soft cotton of his shirt.

I motion him toward the kitchen and don’t bother turning on the lights as I fill his bag with ice. “I can get you someice packs to keep in the freezer. Just ask next time instead of sneaking around the house after dark.” I zip the bag shut and hand it to him.

“I assumed you were sleeping.”

“I wish.” I slam the freezer door shut.

“Were we too loud?” Even in the dark, concern lines his face.

“It’s not you.” Which is only half true. Brax’s surprise arrival has only heaped another layer onto my already teetering tower of blocks. “I’m starting a new job tomorrow, so there’s first-day jitters and all that.”

“Congratulations,” he says with a grin. “What happened to your Etsy shop?”

I can’t believe he remembers my side hustle—a custom fashion shop that specializes in unique sports apparel. When we were decorating for Mia’s wedding, I showed him a few of the designs on my phone. He told me I had talent. I told him I wanted to design custom jerseys for the NHL.

“My business hasn’t taken off the way I hoped, but I’m continuing to sell. It’s just not enough income while Sloan’s taking a leave of absence.”

He tilts his head to the side, and the light from the hall highlights the sharp cut of his cheekbones. “Why is Sloan off work?”

I knew at some point we’d need to tell the guys. I was just hoping that Sloan could do it herself. “About four months ago, Sloan was in a car accident. She hit her head pretty hard and suffered a traumatic brain injury.”

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