Free Roomies (A Standalone Novel) (New York City Bad Boy Romance) by Claire Adams Page B

eyes as best I can as I bend down and pull her pants up.
    “I’m such a mess,” she
says, starting to cry.
    “You’re just drunk,” I
tell her. “Once you get some sleep and maybe a bit to eat, you’ll start feeling
better.”
    I’m still holding her
pants up, as zipping or buttoning them would be a bit too familiar as a
platonic roommate. She fastens the button and zips herself up, then falls back
onto the couch.
    “What is the matter with
me?” she asks.
    “Nothing,” I tell her.
“You’ve just had a bit to drink—”
    “I’m drunk,” she says.
“Yeah, I get that. I mean, why is it that everything has to be so screwed up?
My sexually inappropriate boss just told me that there’s an opening at the firm
and that they’d love to hire me on permanently, but he looked like he was going
to burst a blood vessel by being decent to me for once.”
    “Leila,” I tell her. “I
know you don’t think so right now, but this will all be better after you’ve had
a chance to sleep it off, all right? I’m going to bring you a blanket and put
on a movie for you. You can sleep on the couch.”
    “I think you’re right,”
she says.
    “Good, do you want me to
grab a blanket from your room, or—”
    “No, I mean about what
you were saying before. When you said that sleeping with someone is what it
takes to move on sometimes. That’s what I was trying to do earlier, but that
idiot got in a cab and left me there.”
    “He left you?” I ask.
    She relays the story and
I do my best not to crack a smile.
    “Some guys are like
that,” I tell her. “People can get weird when they haven’t been with someone
for a while.”
    “That’s what I’m saying.”
    “But do you know what’s
going to help even more?”
    “Yeah, yeah, sleep and
alcohol wearing off and blah, blah, blah,” she answers.
    “That’s right,” I tell
her. “Do you want me to grab you a blanket?”
    “You know Dane,” she
says.
    “Yeah?”
    “Maybe we could, I don’t
know.”
    I think I know where
she’s going with this.
    “Let’s talk about it in
the morning.”
    “You’ve been so nice to
me today,” she says. “I always thought you were kind of a jerk, but you’re
really taking care of me right now.”
    “Leila, I’ve got to level
with you.”
    “What’s on your mind?”
she asks.
    I’m not sure whether it’s
the guilt from not having told her yet, or if I’m simply trying to change the
subject, but I blurt out, “I’m losing my job.”
    “What? What happened?”
    “Well, let’s just say the
place where I work,” I start, trying not to throw the fact that I lied about
what I do onto the pile of things I should have told her a while ago, “they’re
having some money problems. People just aren’t coming in like they used to. My
boss told me that he could keep me on for another month.”
    “When did he tell you
that?” she asks.
    If this conversation’s
going to take a bad turn, it’s probably going to be right here.
    “About a month ago,” I
tell her.
    “Oh,” she says.
    “Yeah, he hasn’t said
anything to me yet, but it’s probably not going to be long. I’ve been putting
out my resumé , but I haven’t heard back on any—”
    “Musicians use resumés ?” she asks.
    “Everyone does,” I
answer.
    “You know,” she says with
a knowing look, “I’ve seen your guitar, but I’ve never heard you play.”
    “I like to save that
for…” I start but don’t know how to finish.
    At this point, I’m just
lying about my job because I’ve been lying about my job.
    “Whatever,” she says.
“I’m sure you’ll find something.”
    She has a lot more faith
than I do.
    “You look like you were
really worried to tell me that,” she says.
    “Yeah,” I answer. “I was.
Still am, actually.”
    “We’ll figure it out, all
right?” she says.
    She holds her arms out.
    I don’t know, maybe I
should take the hug now and maybe when she sobers up she’ll be less likely to
get pissed that I waited a