Even my mother had been begrudgingly happy for me, despite the fact that the deal for her own book had fallen through and she was currently looking for a publisher.
“And after your book signing, I’m going to take you out to celebrate, and then we’ll go pick up Aaron.”
I smiled, thinking about Aaron, who was almost two now. We picked him up Saturday afternoon, and he stayed with us until Monday morning. He was definitely not the handful that everyone told me he was going to be once he was a toddler. He was actually really fun to be around, and I enjoyed the time he was with us. Even though Ian and I weren’t married, I’d settled into the role of step-mother much more easily than I thought I would have. Eventually, I knew, Ian and I would tie the knot, but for now, living together and learning how to be parents to Aaron was good enough for the both of us. And maybe, some day, Ian and I would have a kid of our own, but there was still plenty of time for that.
Right now, I had a talk to give.
Ian leaned down and gave me a kiss. “You’re going to be great,” he said. “I love you.”
I kissed him back. “I love you, too.” Then I took a deep breath and stepped out onto the stage.
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ROOMIES
By Claire Adams
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 Claire Adams
Chapter One
Room Available
Leila
“Thanks, I still have a few people to interview, but I’ll be sure to give you a call.”
Yeah, right. Even after the guy’s out the door, I’m still choking on his cologne.
I’ve been in Manhattan for less than a month, and my internship isn’t cutting it. You’d think that, even as an intern, working for one of the major stockbrokers in the world would be enough to cover a simple, two-bedroom apartment. You’d think wrong.
The big boss at my company makes something like 2,500 times my salary. Now, I don’t really expect to bring in the millions as an intern, but I should, at least, be able to hold onto an apartment.
You know, I’m really starting to think that my landlord only rented me the place for the eye candy. The way he stares at my chest when he talks to me should have tipped me off, but I was just happy to talk to someone who heard my salary and didn’t laugh in my face.
Right now, I’m going around opening all the windows, hoping to air the place out before my next appointment arrives.
I’m waiting a while.
My final appointment of the day, a Dane Paulson, is already five minutes late.
Maybe he passed the other guy in the hall and had to be wheeled out of the building. I can’t begin to explain how, but opening the windows has only made the lingering stench worse.
I’m in the bathroom, putting drops in to lessen the stinging in my eyes when there’s a knock on the door.
“Just a minute!” I shout.
The last thing I need is for a prospective renter to think I’m some crazy, emotional woman, crying about nothing. Either that would scare him away or make me appear that special kind of vulnerable that the worst kinds of people prey upon.
Neither one is an acceptable option.
I’m at the door one minute and three tissues later.