Free Tough Luck Hero by Maisey Yates

hadn’t used in years.
    â€œHow hard can it be?”
    Neither of them spoke the obvious, which was that they had a difficult enough time coexisting when they lived in the same small town, let alone the same house.
    â€œI’m sure it will be super easy,” she said, hefting her suitcase up onto the bed and throwing it open. “Super, super easy.” She continued muttering as she walked into the bathroom.
    She looked around at all of her things. Her makeup, put away neatly in the dark purple case that she kept on the left-hand corner of the counter. Her flat iron, snapped into its sparkly holder, which kept it and its cord carefully contained. Then she turned and looked at the shower, at the carefully organized caddy that contained her shampoo, conditioner and oil treatments.
    Everything was right where she wanted it to be. Organized exactly the way it made sense to her. She didn’t have to compromise. Didn’t have to modify herself to be different for anyone. Didn’t have to contort so that she wouldn’t be in the way.
    Darn it, she liked having her own space. Needed it, even. And maybe she was being really, really dramatic about the fact that she was going to be sharing a house with somebody for a couple of months. Maybe.
    â€œIt’s a vacation,” she muttered, picking up her various items. “A vacation on a ranch. With a surly roommate that will maybe cook breakfast?”
    She walked out of the bathroom, back into the bedroom, where Colton was still standing in the doorway, his arms crossed over his broad chest.
    â€œI thought you came in to help me.”
    â€œYou didn’t give me a directive. Did you want me to just aimlessly go through your things and try to decide what you needed?”
    She made a scoffing noise in the back of her throat. “Obviously not.”
    Silence stretched between them, along with a thick band of tension that seemed to wrap itself around her, more specifically, her throat. She found it difficult to breathe all of a sudden. For some reason, the air seemed to reduce around them. For some reason, she was unbearably conscious of the scent of the soap that he used, and just how familiar it was.
    It was a reminder. A reminder that—whether she remembered it or not—she had absolutely smelled it on his skin before. Her brain didn’t remember, but right now, her body seemed to.
    â€œDo you have a food processor?” she asked, because talking about food processors seemed as good a method as any for diffusing the unwanted crackle of tension in the room.
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œThere’s no of course about that. A lot of men wouldn’t have one.”
    â€œWell, I have a housekeeper. She cooks a lot of my food.”
    Lydia’s eyebrows shot up. “A housekeeper?”
    â€œYou feel a little less victimized now, don’t you?”
    â€œNo. Thoroughly victimized.” She added as many clothes as she could to her bag, followed by shoes.
    â€œIt isn’t like you can’t come back to the house. You can make vague noises about how you intend to rent it out if anyone asks. But we’ll never get around to it.”
    â€œYou know, I hear some people live in cities, where nobody knows their name, or pays attention to what they’re doing.”
    The corner of his mouth curved upward. “What must that be like?”
    â€œI don’t know. Do you have a juicer? Because I juice.” She had juiced twice. Once right after she had bought the juicer, and another time when her pants had refused to zip after the holidays last year. But then, she had just bought new pants because juice with kale in it was an abomination.
    Colton treated her to a baleful look. “Nobody juices.”
    She scoffed. “Well, okay, I don’t do it every day. But I do stop at the store on the way to work and buy a bottle of juice sometimes.”
    â€œDo you?” he asked, his tone rife with