Page 4 of Uxpectedly Ever After

Banks is going to disrupt all of this just by breathing. He’s loud, probably leaves a trail of dirty socks wherever he goes, isdefinitely arrogant, and is entirely too large for normal human-sized spaces. His personality alone probably takes up more square footage than my entire damn apartment.

The dough beneath my knuckles bears the brunt of my Banks-and-Kasen-induced fury as I punch it down with enough force to make a professional MMA fighter wince.

"Stupid hot alphahole firefighter," I grumble to Moscow Mule, my awesome low-maintenance snake plant. "Stupid brother and his stupid guilt trips."

I could have said no.Shouldhave said no. But Kasen knows exactly which emotional buttons to push to make me cave like a cheap tent in a hurricane.

He's always looked out for you.

The words echo in my head as I roughly shape the dough into a messy boule and practically shove it into a proofing basket. Has Banks really looked out for me? My mind grudgingly coughs up that one night in college at a frat party when this overly persistent dick wouldn't take "no" for an answer. How Banks, the chivalrous jerk, just appeared out of nowhere, his hand heavy on the guy's shoulder, his voice dropping to that low, dangerous rumble that always made the hairs on my arms stand up despite my better judgment. "She said no. Might want to listen before Imakeyou listen." I’d been so pissed at his knight-in-shining-armor routine back then, insisting I could handle my own damn self.

I’d also been a little… yeah, no, we are definitely not going there.

Okay, somaybehe has looked out for me in his own special brand of irritating, alphahole way. But that doesn't give him the right to invade my personal bubble, use my tiny bathroom, see me in my ancient, holey pajamas, or witness my pre-coffee zombie state.

I carefully slide the banneton into the fridge for its overnight proofing and then get started on the cinnamon rolls. My famous, stress-induced, middle-of-the-night cinnamon rolls that Kasen would probably sell his own kidney for. The ones Navy pretends to hate me for bringing to work ("They go straight to my thighs, Clover!"), but still manages to inhale three before her shift even starts. Even Theo, who acts like he survives on nothing but green smoothies and smugness, suddenly develops an urgent need to chat with me whenever I bring them in.

By the time I finish the dough and set it to rise in a warm spot, it's closer to four than three. My hands smell like yeast and butter and cinnamon, and there's a light dusting of flour all over my black work pants, but I do feel a little better. I scrub my hands clean and survey my small but immaculate kitchen, wondering what it’ll be like once Banks steps foot in here.

Will he leave dirty dishes in the sink? Empty coffee mugs glued to the counter? Wet towels forming a swamp on the bathroom floor? Will he silently judge my need for order the same way he not-so-silently judges my career choices?

"This isn’t that bad," I tell myself, trudging toward my bedroom. "You can survive anything for three months, right?"

I try to convince myself of the lie as I yank off my work clothes and throw on an oversized t-shirt that’s probably older than some of the guys who hit on me tonight at the bar.

I lie to myself as I aggressively brush my teeth.

Then I keep lying to myself as I set my usual number of alarms—one on my phone, one on the digital clock on my nightstand, and a third on my dresser across the room, strategically placed so I have to haul my tired ass out of bed to turn it off.

I’m still trying to convince myself as I finally slide between the cool sheets, my body aching from another Friday night in the trenches.

But even as sleep starts to pull me under, those unwelcome thoughts elbow their way to the front of the line: Banks freaking Priestly is going to see me first thing in the morning, hair looking like a bird's nest, eyes all puffy and gross, with morning breath wearing my favorite unflattering sleep shirt. My teenage crush, Banks Priestly, will be sprawled out on my futon when I stumble in after late shifts, probably shirtless because guys like him seem to be allergic to shirts. Banks freaking Priestly will be in my tiny apartment, breathing my air, using my shower, touching my stuff.

I groan and yank a pillow over my face, muffling a frustrated yell.

Three months. Ninety damn days. Two thousand, one hundred and sixty freaking hours.

Ugh.

I’m a goddamn mess.

My best friend’s had some stupid fucking ideas over the years, but this has gotta be his worst.

Living with his little sister for the next three months?

If he knew how bad I want to fuck her, I doubt he’d have been so quick to offer her couch up to me.

But turning down this opportunity would’ve been moronic, so here I am, lifting my shaking hand to knock on Clover James’s door.

I've just spent forty-eight hours battling a four-alarm warehouse fire. My muscles are screaming, and my brain feels like sludge. Now I’m about to be face-to-face with the one woman in Portland who makes my heart pound like I've sprinted up ten flights of stairs in full turnout gear whenever she looks at me.

Kasen warned me she wasn't exactly thrilled about this arrangement. I was exactly zero percent surprised when he warned me to, and I quote, "Be on your best fucking behavior or she'll stab you in your sleep." Which is fair. The number of times I've deliberately gotten under Clover's skin just to watch her cheeks flush and her blue eyes narrow into that cute glare? I'd deserve it.

It's just so damn fun.

I adjust the duffel bag on my shoulder and knock three times, hard enough to be heard but not enough to seem demanding.The door swings open halfway through the third knock, and every coherent thought in my head just fucking vanishes. Gone.

She stands in front of me in a pair of criminally small sleep shorts and a tank top with a popsicle on it. Underneath, it saysIt’s Not Gonna Lick Itselfand fuck, my mouth waters. I’d give my right arm to lick it for her. Don’t even care what part of heritis.

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