Page 7 of P.S. I Miss You

But something tells me Sutter’s not that way.

Obnoxious? Yeah. Totally.

Ted Bundy? Eh. I think not.

Nick’s closet is filled with t-shirts, all sloppily hung on a mix of wire and plastic hangers, no particular order to any of it. Shoving his clothes aside, I clear a few feet of space for myself and begin hanging tops and dresses.

When I’m done, I take a seat on his bed for a second, spotting a framed photo of the two of us on his nightstand. I recognize the picture from our junior year of high school, when the guy I was dating dumped me a week before prom after Skylar Saunders’ prom date fell through and she confessed over school cafeteria pizza that she’d always thought my boyfriend was cute.

Word got out and I was dropped like a tray full of hot garbage, but in my defense, ninety-eight percent of the guys at La Paloma High would’ve done the same thing.

Everyone wanted Skylar, and I drew the short straw because as luck had it, my boyfriend was the only guy she wanted.

Nick wasn’t planning to go to the dance that year—he was never into formals and for a rhythm guitarist, the boy couldn’t dance to save his life—but at the last minute, he managed to scrounge up a tux and show up at my door with a corsage in hand and his dad’s vintage Shelby Cobra idling in the driveway.

But there we are, posing next to his father’s car, trying not to laugh at how awkward it was that his hands were hooked around my waist and my back was flush against him and we looked like an actual couple.

I smile. There isn’t a single childhood or teenage memory of mine that doesn’t include a little bit of Nick in it somewhere.

The whoosh of water flowing through the old pipes of the house bring me back into the moment, into my new reality. Sutter must be taking a shower in the one and only bathroom … a detail Nick neglected to share with me until after I agreed to move in.

As an only child, I’ve never had to share a bathroom with anyone in my life. Even in the guesthouse with Maritza, we each had our own en suite. I’m not saying I’m above it or anything, just saying it’s going to be an adjustment, an entirely new experience for me. Even in college, I lived in apartments and always had my own bathroom.

Poor guy.

He’s totally going to love the fact that belting out show tunes in the shower is the only way I can wake myself up in the morning—especially on audition days when it serves dual purposes. I need my voice to be nice and warm, and singing in steamy showers is the quickest way to make that happen.

Heading back down to the entry to grab my second suitcase, I chuckle to myself when I mentally replay our little pissing match from earlier—and that’s exactly what it was.

He was firing one-liners and underhanded compliments at me so fast I hardly had a chance to appreciate how freaking hot this man is, and that’s really saying something because he’s a sight for sore eyes, this one.

Tan skin.

Messy, dark blond hair.

Chiseled features.

Veiny, muscled arms.

Broad shoulders.

Warm, hazel eyes that will straight up melt you if you stare into them too long.

But Sutter was too busy testing boundaries and establishing his dominance, like a feral tomcat marking everything, and in the end, I established my place in this new hierarchy and got him to back down.

The only thing I can’t figure out is … why?

Why does he want to push my buttons and get under my skin?

We’re strangers.

Complete strangers.

Adjusting the handle on my bag, I begin lugging it up the wooden stairs. I’m five steps up when the bathroom door swings open and out walks a very naked Greek Adonis in a cloud of steam, his hand (barely) covering his generous … situation.

Glancing down the stairs, his mouth raises at one corner when he sees me, and then he gives me a wink and a military salute before disappearing into his bedroom.

Ah. So this is how he wants to do this?

All right.

Game on, Sutter.

PAINT THE TOWN?

All that jazz?

What fresh hell is this?

It takes me a second, but when I come to, I realize it’s six in the morning and my new roommate is singing show tunes in the shower that separates our rooms.

“For the love of God, woman.” I roll over, groaning and sandwiching a pillow around my head, but it does very little to block the sound.

The girl’s got some pipes. I’ll give her that. I bet she’s one of those Hollywood-manufactured “triple threats,” the ones whose parents shelled out tens of thousands of dollars over the course of their adolescence to ensure they could sing, dance, and act at a level that would land them enough audition exposure that someday, maybe someday … they might be the next Ariana Grande.

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