Page 4 of Persuading Liam

Allowing myself to enjoy the compliment, I smile. “We’re doing well.”

We stare at each other for a moment before she realizes she hasn’t told me anything about her. “Oh.” She touches her chest as if she’s talking to a man raised by monkeys who might notunderstand human communication. “I’m Marley Green. I was hired to try and resurrect the Paintbrush Post. I don’t know a single other person here other than you.” She nudges the pet carrier I’ve been too preoccupied to notice with her foot. “This is Steven. Whenever we move, he hides for at least a week. You might not see him for a while but I promise he’s real.”

“And who or what is Steven?” I ask, hoping it’s not a dog because I’m severely allergic and I don’t want to end up with my eyes swollen shut like the last time I encountered a canine.

“Steven is a tuxedo cat,” she answers, smiling a little as she talks about him. “He is very fancy. Very particular. And my soul mate.”

I laugh, mostly because I’m relieved it’s not a dog or a snake or some other exotic and terrifying animal. “Good, I’m not allergic to cats.”

She eyes me. “You do look like someone that’s allergic to many things.”

I don’t know if that’s a compliment and I don’t want to ask, so I change the subject. “You’re a journalist?” I ask, unsure why I’m fishing for more info when I don’t necessarily need it.

“Trying to be,” she sighs. “I’ve done a lot of writing that pays the bills that I wouldn’t necessarily classify as journalism, so I’m glad to be taking on something real.” She knits her fingers together and I guess from her body language that she’s nervous about doing a good job.

Against my better judgment, I’d like to know why, but I let it go. I write LIAM AND MARLEY APARTMENT RULES across the top of a sheet of my notebook. “All right. Let’s start with the basics. Schedule is number one since we’re sharing a bathroom. What time do you think you’ll get up each morning?”

She shrugs. “I have to be to work by nine, so probably eight. I’m not known for being an early riser, especially on weekends and I don’t usually spend a lot of time with hair or makeup.”

I feel my body relax a little, “That will work perfectly. I usually get up for an early morning run and will have showered by eight.”

Her face crumples with disgust at the same time her eyebrows ascend her forehead, “I’m sorry, did you say early morning run?”

“Yes. Every day.”

She pretends to gag. “You know that you don’t have to do that, right? I mean, unless you’re being chased by a bear or a murderer, you don’t need to practice running.”

I bite back a smile. “Yes, I’m aware. It actually helps me clear my mind.” I don’t add that I’ve been using it as therapy since my mother died fifteen years ago because that’s my business.

“Well, you do you, I guess,” she sighs. “On to laundry. Let’s split the week. I’ll take Sunday through Wednesday, and you take Thursday through Saturday?”

“Sure.” I jot that down. “Cleaning. I will admit that I like my space to be very clean. If you’re okay with letting me take care of my space and the bathroom, I’d appreciate it. We can share the rest.”

“Am I okay with you cleaning the bathroom? Uh. Yes. One hundred percent. I’ll keep my bedroom clean, and we’ll share the rest like you said.”

I study her face, trying to decipher how messy she’ll be. It’s been my experience that creative people—like Elliot—can be walking tornados. Call me rigid, but I love an orderly, spotless existence.

The coffee stains on her sweatshirt alone tell me probably more than she realizes and I groan internally as I imagine cleaning up her future messes.It’s fine,I tell myself,anyone is still a thousand times better than Elliot.

“Oh,” she announces as if she just had an idea. “And no romance or touching. I’m your roommate, not your fuckbuddy.”

I flinch in response because the thought hadn’t even occurred to me, but now that it has, all I can think about is how close our bedrooms are.

Fuck me. This just got harder.

3

MARLEY

“That’s all you have?” Liam asks me later that night, staring at the air mattress, folding chair, and four boxes I brought in from in my car.

“For now,” I defend after watching his hired moving crew move an entire apartment’s worth of things into the place in the space of two hours. “My stuff comes in a few days.”

I’m trying to be mad that he filled the living room with the furniture of his choice, but I can’t lie, the couches are the yummiest things I’ve ever sat on. And I hate that he has better taste than me.

Even the mid-century modern dining set is cool. It’s like he was destined to live in this space, making me feel a little like I don’t deserve to be here. Stupid, I know, but that’s the way my brain works.

And let’s not talk about how he helped the movers. Or how his surprisingly large biceps bulged as he brought in boxes, or the way the sweat beads glistened on his upper lip, or the way I caught a glimpse of his washboard abs when he wiped that sweat with the hem of his shirt.

---