Page 27 of The Player + The Pact = I Do

But his own home doesn’t look like it’s ever met an IKEA catalogue, let alone an interior designer. I poke my head through the door on the far side of the living space. It’s a formal dining room that doesn’t look like it’s been touched. The next door is an office, which again, doesn’t look like it’s been used.

Did I pass the bedrooms? I double back and realize there are six doors off the entrance hall currently obscured by my boxes. Leo didn’t say anything about any part of the apartment being off-limits and I don’t want to pry—scratch that, I absolutely want to pry—but I won’t go hunting for his bedroom.

The first door I open is a bedroom. This one definitely looks like it’s something a designer has done. Unlike the main living space, this room is coordinated without being matchy, in light blues, silver, and white. The sheer number of pillows on the bed tells me Leo had nothing to do with this room. I make my way over to the window and the eastern view seals the deal. I can see the whole city.

“Hello,” a male voice calls. It sounds like Leo. Shit, I’d wanted to have all my stuff in my room by the time he got back.

I race outside to find him surveying the boxes and suitcases. “Hey, sorry, I’ll have this all cleared. I was just trying to figure out which bedroom I should take.”

“It’s not a problem,” he says. “Need a hand?” His tone has changed a little from how he usually sounds in the office. It’s warmer. More open. It’s not like he’s cold at work—he’s not. He’s always friendly and nice, but it feels… different somehow. This is the voice of the man I met at the not-costume party all those years ago.

“Oh I’m good.” I’m not good. Hanging out in my boss’ apartment like we’re old friends when in reality we barely know each other is beyond weird.

“Have you decided?” he asks, nodding to the blue-and-white room. “It’s my favorite after the primary.”

“It’s really pretty.”

He chuckles. “Pretty. Okay, let’s go with that. Not the vibe I was going for.”

“You had someone do the design?”

“Of this room and all the bedrooms. Then, I just… gave up. I had too much to do and I just needed it to be functional. What I actually needed was for the designer to make all the decisions, but I think she was too scared to execute in case she made a mistake. I guess she saw it as an audition. But I’ve lived with it like this for eighteen months now. I’m used to it, even though it pisses me off that it looks a bit like a student flat.”

I laugh, half at his accent and the way he says “student flat,” and partly because the design of the place—or lack thereof—bothers him. It’s kinda unexpected. “I’m pretty sure there aren’t many students who could afford something like this, so you can rest easy on that score.”

“Maybe.” He shrugs and picks up a box. “Shall I take it in?”

“Sure,” I reply, grabbing a suitcase. “Ever had a roommate before?”

“Not since… a while. My friend Fisher and I lived together in our twenties.” He sets the box down and I realize I didn’t even see it, but there’s a walk in closet that leads through to an attached bath.

“You’ve never lived with a girlfriend?” I ask as we both grab a box from the corridor.

He takes a couple of beats before he answers. “Not really,” he says.

That’s not exactly a no, but if he’d said yes, I’d have been more surprised. It was clear the first night I met him that he wasn’t looking for just one woman to commit to. Hell, he wasn’t even looking for just one woman to flirt with. Not that I’m still bitter about it. I’m just pissed I fell for it.

We work together to bring all my stuff into my new room. I’ve counted. Two suitcases and nine boxes. Well, I didn’t want to be going back to New Jersey all the time. I’m going to look at my stay here as a vacation. It will certainly be a break from my commute, that’s for sure.

“This is the last one,” he says, carrying the final box into the bedroom. “Where do you want it?” It’s the smallest box there is, only a little bigger than a shoebox.

“Oh, actually, I’ll take that.” It’s all the stuff from my bedside drawer—an eye mask, Tylenol, aromatherapy rollerballs, and my emergency stash of magnesium.

He hands me the box and our fingers brush.

“Ooops,” I say, and then wish I hadn’t acknowledged it. All of a sudden I can feel him everywhere. I’m acutely aware that I’m moving into the apartment of a man who’s incredibly attractive.

The corner of his mouth lifts a little, but he doesn’t say anything. He stares at me for a second, as if he wants to ask a question. “I’m going to order in some food. What do you want?”

“You don’t have any food? Your kitchen is huge.”

“I have some stuff. A housekeeper comes in to stock the basics, but I usually just order in.”

“What basics?” I ask him.

He frowns but turns. I abandon my cardboard box village and follow him out of the bedroom.

“I don’t know, like milk and coffee and stuff.”

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