Everett Holden had sworn to live the rest of his life a single man, but his plans are disrupted when he finds himself sharing an apartment with his best friend's ex - the one woman he detests with every fiber of his being yet simultaneously desires...
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CONTENT WARNING: if you are uncomfortable with sexual content, this will NOT be the book for you. Don't say I didn't warn you!
BEING THE PRODUCT of wealthy parents isn't all it's cracked up to be. Sure, I can buy whatever I want with my hefty trust fund, and I probably won't ever have to worry about going without, but for the most part, having a rich family can be...lonely.
With a Dad playing professional football and a Mom who's a prestigious doctor, my childhood was spent with our nanny throughout the day, and on the rare occasions that my parents could be with my siblings and me, it wasn't long-lived. I spent time with my father two months out of the year, and the rest of the time, it was video calls with bad service or quick five-minute phone calls before he went out on the field. And my mother was rarely home. If she was home, she'd be in the library researching to help her patients, or she'd be too worried about her patients that it left little time to make room for us.
There wasn't ever a doubt in my mind that my parents did love my siblings and me. They cared for us more than anything in the world, but their careers required a lot from them, and my siblings and I never wanted to get in the middle of that. It was admirable to see their work ethic, but in return, I dealt with most of my problems myself, and it affected me more than I cared to admit.
The weather in Los Angeles in January can be hit or miss; today, it's frigid. I clench my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering like a little bitch, my hands fumbling with the buttons to the code of my townhouse when my phone starts to ring. "What?" I grunt, not caring who's on the receiving end.
"Jesus. Is there ever a day when you're not a miserable sack of shit?" Since elementary school, Liam, my best friend, has never had a problem calling me out on my moods.
"It's cold as fuck," I reply defensively. When the door to my townhouse opens, I'm thankful to be surrounded by warmth. My father bought this place for me when I got into UCLA for graphic design. It was likely an attempt to redeem himself from all the years he wasn't there for me. Since he retired from football during my freshman year of high school, he's been trying to repair our relationship. Although it's improving, he doesn't understand that I don't need gifts to mend it. I've had gifts my entire life, and they've never helped the emptiness I feel.
Although I have to admit, this place is pretty sick. It's right in the middle of downtown, less than ten minutes from campus, and it's one of those buildings that's old but modern at the same time. The interior has weathered red brick walls and pristine wood flooring, but the kitchen is all stainless steel with black granite countertops and red accents.
My decor consists of nothing but red and black purely because it reflects the brooding and miserable personality I can't seem to get rid of.
High ceilings with skylights have rays of sunlight beaming down in the living room. I take the spiral staircase to the left of the open-concept space up to the hallway and into my bedroom, tossing my phone on my bed and my body alongside it.
