Page 20 of Messy Strokes (Wrecked Roommates)

There’s one problem, though. I don’t know who she is anymore.

The front door opens with a creak, scaring the ever-loving crap out of me. From the entryway, there’s a set of stairs to the left, a family room to the right, and a short hallway leading to the kitchen and dining area.

Which is where I am right now.

Shit.

I dart around the fridge so I’m out of sight from the front door and clutch my chest, squeezing my eyes shut.

Please don’t be Milo. Please don’t be Milo.

The steps are softer and less angry than a certain someone’s as they echo down the hall, giving me enough hope karma doesn’tcompletelyhate me.

I peek one eye open, searching for the culprit, and find my new roomie, Jake, walking into the kitchen. His hair is a disheveled mess, sticking up in every possible direction while his eyes are bloodshot, and his hand is pressed to his forehead, probably attempting to stave off a massive headache.

“Coffee,” he croaks without bothering to say hello. But he doesn’t question why I’m hanging out in his kitchen, either. Then again, Milo kicked him out of his room so I could stay in it, so he must not be entirely out of the loop.

He does, however, look like he had a hell of a night last night. Probably didn’t match mine, but still.

He never liked me when Milo and I were first hanging out. Probably because we had a habit of keeping him awake when he needed a good night’s rest for finals. But he’s a nice guy. Sweet. Caring. Maybe a little quiet but hella smart, and he definitely screams future Forbes magazine cover model.

Or at least, he usually does.

Right now, he looks like he was run over by a car.

“Hangover?” I ask, reaching for a mug in the dark cabinets.

He collapses onto the barstool tucked beneath the kitchen island and rests his head in his hands, groaning, “Yes.”

“Did you just get home?”

“Iwashome,” he clarifies. “Until Milo woke up the house while screwing his chick. So, in case he asks, it’s his fault I went out for a drink and wound up like this. Coffee me, please.”

The reminder of Milo’s sexcapades feels like another punch to the gut, but I ignore it. “Cream or sugar?”

“Anything. Just…coffee me.”

My amusement feels good as I reach for the sugar, pour a bit into his steaming cup, and set it in front of him.

“You know, coffee isn’t going to help your hangover.”

Breathing in the warm caramel scent, he challenges, “And what do you think will, Smarty Pants?”

I lift my finger and motion for him to give me a second. I race up to my room and scavenge around in my purse, careful not to wake Peanut. When I find a few Liquid IV packs I’d tucked away for safekeeping, I head back downstairs and slap them on the counter.

He flinches at the sound but doesn’t comment as he eyes them warily.

“They’re like Gatorade on steroids,” I explain. “The quickest way to get rid of a hangover is to hydrate like there’s no tomorrow. Here.” I grab another cup from the cabinet, fill it with water, and open the packet, sprinkling the strawberry flavored powder over the top. With a spoon, I give it a quick stir and nudge it closer to him. “Drink this and make yourself another one. It’ll help.”

“Sounds like this isn’t your first rodeo,” he notes.

I give him another tight smile. “You know me.”

“I do,” he replies somberly, probably remembering all the nights I used to stay over and how easily I earned the titleparty girlbefore my entire world took a one-eighty, and I wound up pregnant and alone. He’s not the first to remember what I’d been like. I’m pretty sure the only person who saw the real me beneath the party girl façade was Milo, and we all know how that turned out.

“Tell me,” he starts, rimming his coffee cup with his index finger. “How’s the new room?”

I grimace. “Sorry he kicked you out––”

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