The Right Move (Windy City Series Book 2)

“Are you kidding me?” I bury my face in my pillow, trying to shield my eyes from the blaring morning sun pouring into my bedroom windows. “Why are there no blinds?”

The sun beats off the yellow walls of my new room. I need to ask Stevie why the hell she painted this room such an obnoxiously morning color because I know there’s no way in hell Mr. Black and White did.

I don’t know what time it is. I didn’t set up anything in my new room, including my alarm clock and only God knows where my phone could be, but I can tell by the obscenely bright sunrise filtering into my room, it’s too goddamn early to be awake.

I have an overnight flight to work tonight, our first of the season, and I need my sleep. I’m not a morning person regardless, but especially not on days I have to fly all night.

I slept like shit. On the floor with a single pillow and two throw blankets. I don’t have a bed or mattress yet and my stubborn ass refused to crash on Ryan’s couch after last night’s debacle.

I need to go shopping for some things. It feels weird starting over, but no part of me wants the mattress or bedding from where I found Alex with someone else.

Thinking of his name alone reawakens the ache in my chest that likes to hide for periods of time until a simple reminder brings a tsunami of pain along with it.

Finding my phone digging into my back, I squint my eyes, careful not to blind myself with its bright screen.

INDY

Daily update—why the hell is this room the color of a baby duckling?! I wish your bed was still here. Zanders is rich enough to buy a different one for your guest bedroom. Oh, and your brother is a dick.

STEVIE

Well, at least that’ll keep you from wanting to sleep with him!

When did I say that? I’m a romance reader. I have a thing for assholes.

She doesn’t respond and I wonder just how many daily updates it’ll take for her to block my number.

Burying my head, I use my pillow to blind my eyes, hoping to get a few more hours of precious sleep, but as soon as the waft of fresh coffee filters into my room, I’m on high alert. The smell is enticing as it is, but couple that with some crackling bacon and I’m out of bed and stumbling over my clutter to get to the kitchen. I don’t eat the stuff, but God does it smell amazing.

“Morning,” Ryan says, not bothering to turn around as he faces the stove top.

“Yes, it is,” I mumble, taking a seat at the kitchen island.

A cutoff T-shirt and basketball shorts grace his body, but his outfit doesn’t give off the frat boy vibes you’d expect. His shirt seems so old and worn that he had to cut the sleeves off simply because the fabric was garnering too many holes—surprising for someone as clean as him. Regardless, I’m not complaining because his sleek, curving oblique muscles peek out perfectly from the deep cut sides and his bulging quads make my imagination dance with all the things those powerful legs could do.

God, he’s cut.

Ryan finally turns to face me, catching my admiring stare before his eyes flicker to my chest. I probably should’ve thrown a bra on. Thanks to this thin, smiley-faced tank top, I’m not the only one greeting my new roommate this morning.

“We aren’t into bras?”

“We? I personally don’t love wearing one with my pajamas, but you do you.” I hold my hands up in surrender. “Judgment free zone.”

He shoots me an unimpressed glare before placing a piping hot mug of black coffee on the counter in front of me, followed by a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and wheat toast.

I pull my gaze up to meet his. Blue-green eyes bore into mine, waiting for me to say something, but I can’t. The edge of frustration he wore last night has washed away slightly and he looks softer, kinder.

“You wanted to have breakfast together,” he reminds me, nodding towards my plate.

He remembered, although I forgot all about that after my little meltdown. I figured I would be greeted with an eviction notice after last night, not with a homemade breakfast.

This meal is an olive branch. And even though he was a royal jackass, I did throw a shoe at his door, so I don’t know that he’s the one who should be apologizing.

“Was it the bright pink ones?” he asks, pulling my stare away from his bedroom.

“Hmm?”

“The shoe you threw at my door. Was it your pink heels?” He motions to the mess in my doorway.

I guess I should be embarrassed, but I’m not. “Probably. Those are my I-don’t-take-shit shoes.”

A slight smile tugs at the corner of his lip, but I don’t get my hopes up for a genuine grin. I’ve quickly learned that Ryan Shay finds me neither funny nor charming.

He holds a fork out for me as he stands opposite the island, but before he begins to eat his breakfast, he cleans the two pans he used, dries them, and replaces them to their rightful home.

“Sorry about last night,” I finally apologize with my mouth full. “I’ll scrub that scuff off your door.”

He doesn’t respond, shifting his attention to his plate as he begins to eat his breakfast.

“You don’t like bacon?” He points his fork at my plate.

“I’m a vegetarian.”

His eyes bounce to mine with horror before he swoops up my bacon and slips it between his deliciously full lips. “And you don’t drink coffee?”

“I love coffee. But I don’t drink hot coffee. I’m waiting for it to cool down, then I’ll add some ice. And creamer. Lots of creamer.” 

His brows furrow, probably wondering how he landed the world’s most difficult roommate. “You only drink iced coffee? What about in the winter?”

“It could be negative twenty, and I’ll hold an iced coffee in my hand while I wear my winter gloves.”

“Are you a Starbucks girl? A bit basic don’t you think, Indiana?”

My eyes narrow at the name. “Ever hear the phrase ‘she’s not like other girls’?”

He gives a small nod of his head.

“Yeah, that’s not me. I’m just like every other chick. As basic as they come. I had an Uggs phase. I had a skinny jeans phase. I like my books with romance, my coffee with more creamer than caffeine, and I even take aesthetic pictures of my food anytime I’m at a restaurant.”

His chest moves slightly, and I give myself an internal pat on the back for pulling the smallest silent laugh from Ryan Shay.

We finish our breakfasts in silence. Ryan doesn’t look up at me, but I can’t stop my wandering eye from falling over him as he eats. He really is a beautiful man. Square jaw with a light dusting of scruff. Lips a bit full that I can’t help but wonder how soft they feel.  Eyes that are light and bright, alluring even if he doesn’t mean to be.  He’s not the nicest, not the most outgoing, but attractive, nonetheless. The oddest thing about him might be that he doesn’t realize this.

“What?” he asks without looking up at me.

I’m not embarrassed being caught red-handed, so I keep my attention locked on him. “Do you have any friends?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t have much in your kitchen. What if your friends come over for dinner and there are no extra plates or silverware?”

“I don’t spend time with my friends here.”

“Where do you spend time with them?”

“At practice or at our games.”

“Your teammates, you mean.”

“I work too much to not consider my teammates my friends. Stevie’s my friend, too.”

“Your twin sister.”

“And Zanders.”

“Your probable future brother-in-law.”

“What’s your point, Indy?” His tone is laced with exasperation.

I casually pop my shoulders. “No point. Just trying to get to know you. What’s your favorite color?”

“Black.”

“I kind of thought robots would be more into silver.”

He offers me a fake smile. “Cute.”

“Why don’t you have a dog or a pet to keep you company? It’d be lonely living here by yourself.”

“I’m allergic to dogs. And I’m not lonely.”

“Ah, that’s right. I forgot about your allergy. Really pissed off the big guy upstairs to earn that allergy, huh? What about a cat then? Something to take care of.”

“I don’t need anything or anyone to take care of, and I don’t need added company. I like being alone.”

“I love flowers. I could get you some. Or a plant. Maybe you’ll feel more masculine with a plant. Something that will thrive in the bitter coldness of your personality.”

“You’re pretty…bold for someone who just got here yesterday and still hasn’t signed a lease. And you ask a lot of questions.”

“You think I’m pretty?”

“You heard the first two words and tuned out the rest, huh?” He raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“Just trying to get to know you.”

He eyes me for a moment, studying. “Fine. My turn.”

I sit up straighter. “Oh, this is fun! Roommate bonding. Shoot.”

“Tell me about your ex and why you don’t have a place to live.”

Well, fuck. Starting off real strong, I guess.

“My favorite color? So glad you asked. Lavender.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

Exhaling a deep, resigning sigh I ask, “You already think I’m a mess. Are you sure you want the details?”

“I do.”

He holds my stare, unwavering. Realizing this honesty might be a non-negotiable to living here, I tell him. “My ex and I lived together for a long time. We dated for a long time, and that all ended about six months ago when I came home early from a work trip and found him in our bed with someone else.”

Ryan’s jaw tics as if he’s grinding his molars together. “I know most of that. How long is a long time?”

“Six years.”

Blue-green eyes widen. “You were together for six years?”

“Yep, but we’ve known each other our entire lives.”

“Six years and you weren’t married or engaged yet?”

“We were getting there. He had the ring. I was waiting for him to be ready for the next step.”

I keep looking down at my plate because this is humiliating. I used to love our love story. It made us unique, connected. Childhood friends getting married. I was excited to display our kindergarten pictures at our wedding one day.

But now? Now, it’s mortifying. We’ve known each other twenty-two years, dated for six of them, and I still couldn’t get the guy to marry me. I couldn’t even get him to remain faithful.

“You should never have to beg someone to be ready for a future,” he says, and the words come out more tender than I think he anticipated.

“Regardless of your apartment décor, life isn’t always black and white, Ryan.”

“It is when it comes to love. Either you want each other, or you don’t. Six years and a lifetime of memories is more than enough time to figure it out. He was stalling. You need to move on.”

“Jesus. A little harsh there. I’m trying.”

“No, you’re not. Not really. You were crying last night because of him. You can say it was because I’m an ass and what I said was mean, but it was because of him. You’re living here because of him and that hurts your feelings. He didn’t want you. He proved that by waiting six years to propose, and he practically screamed that from the rooftops when he decided to fuck someone else in your bed. So, yes, Indiana, it is black and white. You need to move on. He doesn’t deserve shit from you, including your tears.”

Ignoring the nickname, anger bubbles inside of me. “Maybe work on a softer approach there, Roomie. You have no idea what it feels like to have your entire future ripped out from under you, forcing you to start over.”

He swallows, eyes staying locked on mine. “Trust me, I know better than anyone.”

Shit. The vulnerability covering his annoyingly beautiful face tells me I struck a nerve.

I soften my tone. “My name isn’t Indiana, you know. So the nickname makes absolutely no sense. Not to mention it’s longer than Indy.”

“Your real name is Indy?”

“Indigo, actually. But I prefer Indy.”

“Indigo? Like the color?”

“Yes, like the color. My parents had an interesting phase when I was born. They had one kid and went with ‘Indigo.’”

“So, your name is Blue?” He genuinely laughs and it’s the first time I’ve heard it. Regardless that he’s laughing at me and not with me, I like the sound.

“My name is Indy,” I remind him. “So, can we stop with the Indiana nickname that makes no goddamn sense?”

He smiles. Wide and perfect, not holding back. He’s even got dimples, lucky son of a bitch. “Sure thing. I’ll stop with the nickname, Blue.”

“No. Absolutely not. It’s Indy, just Indy.”

He takes my now room temperature coffee and pours a bit in the sink before turning back to the fridge and filling my mug with ice. Pulling a small carton of milk from the refrigerator, he sets them both down in front of me.

“I don’t have any creamer, so hopefully milk will do. You’re not lactose intolerant too, are you?”

There’s a nervous bounce in his eyes as he looks at me, as if he can’t handle another thing I won’t eat or drink. “Milk is great. Thank you.”

“Let’s talk about your lease.”

“You still want to let me live here after I threw a shoe at your door and told you what a colossal clusterfuck my life is?”

“I don’t know if I’d use the term want, but it’s only temporary. Until you’re back on your feet.”

Temporary. I’m over my entire life being temporary. I want stability and a future, but I’m one hundred percent fine with this living situation being temporary. Ryan won’t be able to handle me for long anyway. I can tell.

“Okay, let’s talk about the lease.”

He takes my now empty plate along with his own and begins washing them in the sink. “How much can you afford in rent?”

I don’t get embarrassed often, but two of my more embarrassing moments have occurred with Ryan Shay so let’s add this to the list. How am I supposed to tell one of the most attractive men I’ve ever met how much money I make? Looking around his apartment, it’s clear he’s never felt financially strapped, at least since he was drafted by Chicago. His place is phenomenal, and I don’t make enough money to even rent the linen closet.

Keeping my eyes down, I ask, “My max budget, or how much I can afford while still eating and putting gas in my car?”

“How much could you pay a month that you could still save money for your own place and feel comfortable with all your other expenses?” Ryan puts our plates and forks on the drying rack next to the sink.

“A thousand?” It’s a question, not a statement. That’s stretching it while having only seven months to save, but I could eat ramen packets and survive.

He raises a questioning brow. “My sister said you were having financial issues. You could find somewhere else to live for a thousand. That’s the whole point to you being here, to save money.”

Fourteen thousand. I have seven months to save fourteen thousand dollars and that’s if everything goes smoothly.

I knew fertility treatments were expensive, and I was aware that they were most likely in my future. What I hadn’t planned was that I would be paying out of pocket to get my eggs frozen at age twenty-seven after my life-long love and who I thought was going to be the father of my children decided to sleep with someone else.

My doctor warned me we should’ve started trying years ago, but Alex wasn’t ready. I don’t blame him because I wasn’t ready either, but he continually made it a point to dangle the whole “I want to start trying soon” thing in front of me. Which is why I didn’t seek out egg freezing sooner while I was still on my parents’ insurance. No, he had to wait until I was a year too old to be covered by them to put his dick in someone else.

Diminished Ovarian Reserve—such a formal phrase to say my ovaries are aging more rapidly than the rest of my body.

Even though my body is in its late twenties, my eggs are on the brink of retirement thanks to my mother’s genetic line. If I want to keep the option of biological children someday, I need to do something about it yesterday, and seeing as I can’t afford to take time off work, my plan is to save, save, save until next summer—hockey’s off-season.

Ryan grabs a notepad and pen from a drawer. I’d assume this is his “junk drawer” but the guy has pens lined in a row and every little thing has its specific place. Psychopath.

He writes Blue’s temporary leasing agreement on the top of the pad of paper.

He underlines temporary twice.

I don’t know what’s more annoying—the blatant reminder he doesn’t want me here or the nickname I earned over breakfast.

He writes his first line item—Rent.

“How do you feel about five hundred bucks a month?” He hovers the pen over the page as he leans on his forearms.

I try my very best not to stare at the bulging veins running down his muscular arms as I go over his offer, but he sure is distracting.

Five-hundred bucks a month? That’s nowhere near enough to charge me. That might not even cover the extra utilities I’ll be charging to his bills.

Maybe he really does want me here and this is his way to get me to stay? I can afford five-hundred bucks a month.

“Only…” he continues while my mind is still reeling over the possible hidden meaning behind his words. “If you take another five-hundred dollars a month and put it in a savings account for your own place.”

And never mind. He’s going to charge me next to nothing in order for me to leave as soon as possible. It’s generous nonetheless and I’m no martyr. If he wants to pay my way, I’ll gladly let him. He clearly has the money. Little does he know that though my savings account will be filled, it’ll be allocated in a different way.

“Deal.”

His eyes lighten, the skin slightly creasing around the corners, but he doesn’t fully smile. “You’re not going to fight me on it? You’re not going to offer to pay me more?”

“Nope.” I pop my shoulders. “I think you can afford to house me just fine, Ryan Shay.”

His attention falls back to the pad of paper and the corner of his lips lift as he writes $500 + $500 in savings next to Rent.

Next line item—Rules.

Here we go. “Let me guess. Quiet hours start at 8:30 PM, and you conduct a small human sacrifice before every home game that no one can find out about.”

“Cute.”

I lean my cheek on my palm with a smile. “You keep saying that, Shay, and I might get a big head over here.”

“No guests,” he says as he writes the same thing.

“I can’t have friends over?”

“Stevie can come over.”

I lightly laugh in disbelief.

“And Zanders,” he offers as if he’s giving me more options. “A couple of my teammates too.”

My brows lift excitedly. “An apartment full of NBA boys? Sign me up.”

“Not for you.”

“You’re no fun.”

“I don’t want strangers here,” he continues. “So, no overnight guests.”

“You’re really no fun. Are you jealous already, Ryan? We’ve only lived together for twelve hours, and you can’t stand to see another man with me. Is that it?”

He motions with his index finger, circling in my general direction. “This thing works for you? You get through life this way?”

“The charming thing, you mean? Twenty-seven years, baby.”

Another light lift of his lips. Well, if that’s not the most addicting thing I’ve ever seen.

“I’m not cockblocking you. Do what you want,” he says, and the words don’t sit well with me. I liked the idea of him being my over-possessive roommate who couldn’t stand another man to be near me because he wanted me for himself.

“Just don’t do it here,” he continues. “I don’t want strangers here. Not to sound like that guy, but I can’t go anywhere without being recognized. My apartment is my safe place, my only true moment of privacy, and I’m not willing to lose that. So no guests. This is non-negotiable.”

“I get it,” I brush him off. “I work with a professional hockey team, remember? I understand the spotlight thing.”

“No, you don’t get it. This is different. More extreme than anything the guys on the Raptors have experienced.”

A moment of silence lingers between us as he holds my stare, unyielding. I hadn’t done my typical internet stalking session on Ryan Shay, but maybe I should’ve. There seems to be more that he’s trying to say without coming off like a cocky pro-athlete and now I wish I understood the unspoken words.

When I met Stevie’s brother six months ago, I had to keep myself from searching his name on the internet. He was unquestionably the most attractive man I’d laid eyes on, but more than that, he didn’t like me. And that bugged me more than I’m willing to admit. I didn’t want to know about him because he didn’t want to know about me.

“No guests,” I agree.

“Promise?”

Apparently, it’s a big deal for him to allow a total stranger into his home. I didn’t realize. I’d taken this living situation lightly, but clearly, he hadn’t.

I sit up straight, hoping he can see how serious I’m taking it now. “I promise.”

His chest deflates as he writes No guests next to Rules.

He follows that up with No friends. No food. No fun, referencing a line from my terrible third impression.

Well, I’ll be damned. Ryan Shay has a sense of humor.

“What about your guests?” I ask before we can veer too far off that subject. “Where do you…entertain your guests?”

His eyes lift to me before they trail down my face, glide along my neck, and linger a little longer on my chest. He takes his bottom lip between his teeth, and my nipples harden from the attention, straining against the thin tank top.

He smirks at that, and fuck, is it gorgeous.

“What are you asking?”

Jesus, his voice got husky.

I swallow, crossing one leg over the other to dull the sudden throb from his panty-melting grin. “I’m asking…” I hesitate, as if the thought of knowing where Ryan Shay has sex isn’t making the spot between my legs painfully ache. Clearing my throat, I begin again. “I was wondering—”

He leans in closer across the island as he keeps his eyes locked on mine. “Are you asking where I fuck, Blue?”

No. We aren’t doing this. He’s not the one that gets to be in control here. I get to make him uncomfortable with my outgoing personality. He doesn’t get to slide in here with his weird, control-freak thing and that sultry voice and ask if I’m curious about his sex life. I am, God, I am, but no.

“Actually, no.” I straighten. “That doesn’t seem like something I want to know.”

“You sure about that?” He nods towards my breasts.

My nipples sure as shit want to know where Ryan Shay fucks. They’re practically ripping through my tank top, wanting to find out. Two smiley faces on the fabric are perfectly lined up, and they’re puckered so far out from the rest of the shirt, they’re practically screaming at my roommate to find out where he has sex if it’s not here.

Huffing, I rub my palms over them, trying to get them to stand down. “What the hell, Ryan? You’re supposed to be shy when it comes to talking about girls.”

“I’m not shy. You just surprised me with how goddamn blunt you were the first couple of times we met.” He straightens. “But I don’t have overnight guests here. I think that’s all you need to know.”

Well, okay then. Clear line drawn.

He adds the third line item which seems like the final one—Signature. Sliding the notepad across the island to me, he holds out the pen.

“That’s it?” I ask with skepticism. “Pay you five-hundred dollars a month and don’t have guests over?”

“Plus make sure you’re quiet when you come home late from road trips, and I’ll do the same. Be nice to my doorman, and maybe we can work on the messy thing.”

I raise a brow. “Now you’re asking for too much.”

Shifting my attention to the pad in front of me, I decide to sign before he adds more rules that I won’t be able to get on board with. So far, these are tame, and I’d like to keep it that way.

He peels off the top paper and uses a magnet to stick our lease agreement on the fridge for both of us to see. Every day. For as long as I live here.

“I’ll see you when you’re back from your road trip.” He takes a fresh coffee with him to his room.

“Wait, that’s it? That was only thirty minutes. You don’t have to hide in your room.”

“I’m good.”

“I could…I could make us lunch!” I quickly suggest, and the desperation for quality time is seeping from my voice. I sound pathetic.

“I have practice.”

“Oh, okay.”

Stopping in his doorway, he turns on his heel to face me again, looking me up and down as I sit on the stool, desperate for some attention. Can he sense how reliant I am on someone else’s company, or does he assume it’s his time in particular I want? Because it’s not about him. I just don’t want to be alone.

His lips tilt again, but this time there’s no amusement in his slight smile. He pities me.

And for the third time since I’ve met Ryan Shay, he hides in his room, away from me.