Page 13 of Pucking my Enemy Boss

“Holly, is your roommate a man? He’s so handsome!” Mom’s voice squeals through the laptop. I quickly turn around and slap the laptop shut.

"What are you doing?" he demands, his voice low, but the displeasure loud enough to ring in my ears.

I swallow hard. "I'm making dinner."

He scoffs. "You cook?"

I ignore his sarcasm. "I found your kitchen schedule. You seemed to like roast beef, so I thought I'd try it."

He snatches the schedule from my hand, flipping through the pages. "Stay out of my things."

I snatch it back. "I'm trying to be a good housemate, okay?"

He scoffs again. "Well, you’re only succeeding in being a pain in my ass."

I feel my temper rising. "You have no right to treat me this way. I’m trying to do something nice."

“The only nice thing you could do is leave my house,” he snaps. “I don’t need?—”

He stops talking midway as his phone rings. He glances at the screen, and I catch a glimpse of the name:Uncle Frank.

His family calls him?They must be saints to put up with him if this is the way he acts with everyone. His face clouds at the sight of the name and he declines the call.What?And then he switches off his phone.

Who ignores family like that?

He jaw is set in a hard line as he stares straight at me. “Just clean up your mess. I have a game tomorrow, and I don’t need any more distractions.”

He storms out of the kitchen, leaving me seething.Who does he think he is?I was just trying to make things better, but no, he has to be a complete jerk about it.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm down. I can't let him get to me.

I look out the window, watching the city lights twinkle. It's a beautiful night, but I feel anything but beautiful.

I'm tired, physically and emotionally drained. I take one look at my roast beef, grab a slice off the plate, and put it in my mouth. It doesn’t even taste good anymore. I find a waste disposal bin and start to dump the food.

The bellabove the café door jingles as I step inside. A wave of warmth washes over me, a welcome respite from the cold outside. The café is small but cozy, with soft lighting and quaint polished furniture. It's the kind of place where you could spend hours lost in a book.

Lauren is sitting in a corner booth, her face lit up by the glow of her phone. She looks up as I approach, her eyes widening in surprise.

"You look like you've been crying," she says, her voice laced with concern.

I force a laugh. "Blame it on my housemate."

My weariness is probably now deep enough to be seen on my face. I’m emotionally drained and starting to believe living with Ethan Carter is like walking through a minefield. One wrong move and I'm blown to smithereens.

"So, tell me everything," Lauren says, gesturing to the booth.

I slide into the seat across from her, and launch into a tirade about Ethan. I tell her about the kitchen incident, how he blew up earlier again this morning about me picking up an item in the living room. I go on to describe his arrogant demeanor, and the way he makes me feel like a tiny speck in a vast universe.

Lauren listens patiently, her eyes filled with sympathy. "You know, he's going through a lot right now," she says.

"I don't care," I snap. "He can't take his anger out on me."

She nods, understanding. "I know, I know. But I just want you to be a bit patient with him."

I scoff. "Why? He doesn't deserve it."

Just then, a young woman with short, curly hair approaches our table. She's wearing a white apron and has a warm smile.

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